JOHN  WARD,  M.D. 


JOHN  WARD,  M.D. 


BY 

CHARLES  VALE 


NEW   YORK 

MITCHELL   KENNERLEY 
MCMXIV 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY  MITCHELL   KENNERLEY 


THE- PLIMPTON- PRESS 
NORWOOD-MASS-U-S-A 


To  E  *  *  *  * 


2138653 


JOHN  WARD,  M.D. 

PART  I                ARCADIA  1 

PART  II               BABYLON  109 

PART  III             THE  PIT  199 


PART    I 
ARCADIA 


JOHN  WARD,   M.  D. 

PART    I 
ARCADIA 

CHAPTER    I 

IT  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  when  Dr.  Ward  drove 
his  car  into  the  large,  roughly-paved  yard, 
bounded,  on  two  sides  of  the  oblong,  by  stables 
and  vast  barns,  memorials  of  the  farmers  who  had 
formerly  lived  profitlessly  in  the  decaying  house. 
The  night  was  cold  and  dark:  the  drizzle  that  had 
floated  down  clammily  throughout  the  day  had 
changed  into  a  heavy,  oppressive  downpour;  rivu- 
lets twisted  through  the  interstices  of  the  uneven 
stones,  splashed  from  the  gutters  and  spouts,  or 
fell,  broken  into  showers,  from  the  low  roofs  of  the 
disused  pig-sties. 

He  tooted  the  horn  as  he  jumped  from  the  car, 
which  was  coated  with  thick,  clayey  mud.  Almost 
instantly,  Marple  appeared  from  one  of  the  barns, 
which  had  been  modernized  and  fitted  up  as  a 
garage.  The  doctor,  with  a  nod,  turned  away;  but 
paused  after  he  had  taken  a  few  steps. 


4  ARCADIA 

"Marple?" 

"  Sir?  » 

"  I  may  be  called  out  again  to-night.  If  so,  I  shall 
want  the  car." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

The  man  looked  at  the  sombre  sky,  the  weltering, 
desolate  environment,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
His  master  walked  to  the  surgery,  which  had  once 
been  a  kitchen,  stored  with  cheeses,  hams  and  flitches. 
After  carefully  washing  his  hands,  he  passed  through 
a  small  inner  room,  arranged  as  a  private  consulting 
room,  and  thence  into  the  hall,  where  he  hung  up  his 
overcoat  and  hat.  In  the  light  of  the  oil  lamp  that 
depended  from  the  ceiling,  his  face  looked  tired. 
That  it  was  white,  was  merely  normal:  but  there 
were  shadows  of  fatigue  which  gave  &.n  illusion  of 
middle  age  to  the  clear  outlines. 

His  housekeeper,  Miss  Sands,  came  from  the 
dining-room. 

"  Dinner  is  served,  sir,"  she  said  jestingly,  with 
the  modulated  voice  of  a  gentlewoman. 

"  You  have  an  extraordinary  gift,  Miss  Sands," 
he  returned  gravely,  "  of  anticipating  my  needs 
before  I  recognize  them.  I  should  not  be  at  all 
astonished  to  discover  that  my  slippers,  cooked  to 
perfection,  are  waiting  alluringly  by  the  fire  to  wel- 
come me;  or  that  a  chicken,  delicately  browned,  has 
at  this  moment  been  placed  on  the  table,  precisely 
as  if  you  had  known  within  three  minutes,  instead 


ARCADIA  5 

of  within  three  hours,  when  I  should  return,  hungry, 
irritable,  and  ready  to  condescend  to  be  petted  into 
amiability." 

"  There  would  be  many  happier  homes,"  she  said 
with  a  smile,  "  if  all  men  had  the  same  idea  of  irri- 
tability that  you  have.  As  for  anticipating  your 
needs,  or  anything  else,  before  you  do,  I  sometimes 
think  that  God  himself  could  scarcely  do  that." 
There  was  no  levity  in  her  voice  as  she  con- 
cluded, but  a  note  of  simple  wonderment;  almost, 
of  awe. 

They  went  into  the  room.  The  slippers,  at  a 
discreet  distance  from  the  glowing  fire,  had  absorbed 
heat  without  undermining  their  constitution.  Ward 
put  them  on,  discarding  his  wet  boots  with  satis- 
faction, and  feeling  already  less  fatigued.  Miss 
Sands  removed  a  cover,  and  the  anticipated  chickens, 
delicately  browned,  diffused  a  subtle  and  stimulating 
odour. 

With  a  feeling  of  complete  resignation  to  the 
physical  necessities  of  the  body,  —  sometimes  so 
irksome,  —  he  began  to  transform  things  external 
into  things  internal.  His  habit  was  to  dine,  when 
he  had  no  guests,  in  complete  silence.  A  little  silence 
is  golden.  Much  silence  is  as  radium. 

When  he  had  finished,  he  perceived  that  Miss 
Sands  was  perplexed.  He  elevated  his  eyebrows. 

"  I  was  wondering,"  she  said,  "  whether  you  would 
prefer  not  to  have  coffee  to-night  ?  " 


6  ARCADIA 

He  lit  a  cigar.  "  You  think  it  might  keep  me 
awake  ?  " 

"  You  have  had  a  heavy  day,"  she  answered,  "  and 
you  were  out  last  night.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  run 
any  risk  of  not  sleeping  soundly,  and  soon." 

He  smiled,  showing  as  much  as  was  necessary  of 
thirty-two  white,  even  teeth,  the  pivotal,  however, 
being  slightly  large.  "  There  is  no  risk  of  my  not 
sleeping  soundly  —  unless  I  am  awakened.  I  will 
take  coffee,  thank  you." 

He  drank  it,  when  it  was  brought  to  him,  slowly. 
Miss  Sands  did  not  speak,  and  the  silence  within  the 
cheerful  room,  lit  by  the  glowing  fire  and  the  shaded 
lamps,  was  peculiarly  soothing.  His  nerves,  jarred 
by  the  anxieties  of  the  day  and  the  preceding  night, 
recovered  their  normal  tone:  a  sense  of  harmony,  of 
complete  accordance  with  the  conditions  of  life,  en- 
veloped'him.  The  sounds  that  obtruded  themselves 
from  without  seemed  irrelevant  to  the  internal 
quietude.  The  patter  and  swirl  of  the  rain,  the 
soughing  of  the  rising  wind,  were  apprehended 
aloofly,  impersonally. 

"  You  will  be  glad  to  know,"  he  said,  at  last, 
"  that  the  operation  was  a  great  success  —  ap- 
parently. Of  course,  it  is  a  serious  case,  and 
complications  may  ensue  —  dangerous  complications. 
But  Dr.  Paxton  was  very  pleased." 

Dr.  Paxton  was  one  of  the  two  specialists  in  the 
populous  north-western  part  of  the  county.  In  what,. 


ARCADIA  7 

precisely,  each  specialized,  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  determine.  But  in  all  grave  cases,  it  was  the 
correct  thing  to  call  in  for  consultation,  at  a  crisis, 
one  of  these  white-haired,  comfort-radiating  practi- 
tioners. Ward  had  been  hurriedly  sent  for  in  conse- 
quence of  the  sudden  collapse  of  a  boy  of  fourteen. 
His  diagnosis  was  acute  appendicitis.  He  had  tele- 
graphed to  Dr.  Paxton,  and  for  a  trained  nurse; 
and  had  performed  the  operation  with  the  complete 
approval  of  the  old,  wise  man,  who  had  been  quite 
contented  to  administer  brief  advice,  and  the 
anaesthetic. 

Miss  Sands,  gazing  into  the  fire,  murmured  a 
commentary.  "  Poor  Mrs.  Harrington !  " 

Ward  nodded.  "  She  loves  —  the  boy  —  natu- 
rally. It  would  be  a  terrible  thing  —  if  —  anything 
happened."  He  spoke  in  segments. 

"  And  you  think  —  ?  " 

He  threw  the  end  of  his  cigar  into  the  grate.  "  I 
am  too  tired  to  think.  I  am  going  to  bed."  He 
stood  up.  "  By  the  way,  if  I  am  called  in  the 
night  —  " 

Miss  Sands,  who  had  risen  also,  looked  at  him  with 
an  expression  in  which  disquietude  was  succeeded 
almost  instantly  by  resignation. 

"  If  you  are  called  —  in  the  night  —  ?  " 

"  And  if  I  am  not  back  by  breakfast  time  in  the 
morning,  you  will  open  my  letters,  and  see  whether 
there  is  one  from  Lord  Daventry.  I  expect  him 


8  ARCADIA 

to-morrow,  but  he  will,  of  course,  send  word,  so  that 
he  may  be  met  at  the  station." 

Miss  Sands  repeated  automatically,  "  —  at  the 
station." 

Ward  went  on.  "  If  there  is  a  letter,  let  Marple 
take  the  dog-cart,  and  meet  him.  It  will  be  fine  in 
the  morning,  so  an  open  trap  will  be  all  right." 

Miss  Sands  turned  suddenly,  with  a  dull  red  flush 
in  each  cheek,  and  placed  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  How  do  you  know,"  she  asked,  "  that  your 
grandfather  is  coming  to-morrow?  Tell  me.  How 
do  you  know?  Has  he  written  already?  " 

Hesitating  for  a  moment,  Ward  knitted  his 
brows,  and  then  answered,  with  a  laugh,  "  Why, 
it 's  his  usual  time,  is  n't  it?  The  dear  old  man 
does  n't  show  much  ingenuity  in  varying  his  sur- 
prise visits." 

Miss  Sands  considered  the  reply,  carefully,  and 
accepted  it.  "  But  how  do  you  know,"  she  insisted, 
"  that  it  will  be  fine  to-morrow?  Listen  to  the  rain. 
It  seems  as  if  it  would  never  stop." 

"Yes,"  said  Ward  lightly;  "and  listen  to  the 
wind.  Do  you  hear  it  rising?  It  will  soon  be  a  gale; 
and  it  is  blowing  from  the  north-east.  I  don't  think 
there  will  be  a  vast  amount  of  rain  in  the  morning. 
Do  you?  " 

She  removed  her  hand  from  his  arm.  "  No,"  she 
said  slowly,  "  I  don't  —  if  you  don't." 

He  was  sleepy.    The  top  of  his  head,  down  to  the 


ARCADIA  9 

eyes,  seemed  curiously  numbed.    He  said  good-night, 
and  walked  upstairs. 

Miss  Sands  went  into  the  hall,  and  brushed  the 
doctor's  overcoat.  Then,  after  placing  a  clean  pair 
of  boots  by  the  side  of  the  fire  in  the  dining-room, 
she  also  retired. 


CHAPTER    H 

AS  there  is  method  in  the  madness  of  certain 
people  who  regard  the  clear  day  with  eyes 
adjusted  to  the  twilight  of  thought,  or  the 
garish  glare  of  passion,  so,  perhaps,  there  is  madness 
in  the  method  of  others  who  strive  steadfastly  to 
control  their  deeds  and  their  destiny.  Many  millions 
of  years  have  passed  since  the  beginning  of  the 
cosmic  experiment,  but  the  little  fragment  of  the 
universe  that  we  call  our  world  has  not  yet  been 
fitted  perfectly  for  its  daily  function.  Order  and 
so-called  law  are  but  the  temporary  accommodations 
of  a  perpetual  struggle.  The  everlasting  hills 
merely  mark  the  seconds  on  the  dial  of  eternity. 
The  first  hour  has  not  yet  struck. 

Ward  folded  his  trousers  and  placed  them  in  an 
empty  press.  Taking  another  pair  from  his  ward- 
robe, he  put  them  on  a  chair  by  the  side  of  the  bed, 
with  the  corresponding  coat  and  waistcoat.  Trans- 
ferring the  links  and  studs  from  the  shirt  that  he 
had  removed,  to  a  clean  one,  he  added  this  also  to  the 
collection.  Underclothing  went  on  the  top.  His 
watch  he  placed  on  a  small  hook  near  the  speaking 


ARCADIA  11 

tube,  which  was  arranged  conveniently  to  his  hand, 
as  he  lay  in  bed. 

Here  was  method  —  the  method  of  a  man  resolved 
to  be  prepared,  so  far  as  possible,  for  whatever  might 
come  to  him,  normal  or  abnormal:  for  a  sudden 
summons,  an  appeal  from  the  known  or  unknown,  a 
call  for  help  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  when  time 
should  be  important  and  delay  perilous. 

As  he  came  upstairs,  he  had  turned  on  the  hot 
water  in  the  bathroom,  at  the  opposite  end  of  the 
landing.  The  tub  was  nearly  full  by  the  time  that 
he  was  ready,  and  he  bathed  luxuriously  by  candle- 
light, boiling  himself.  While  he  lay  in  the  water, 
soaking,  the  window-frames  rattled  as  the  storm 
shook  them.  The  house,  infirm  but  not  yet  ex- 
hausted, quivered  with  the  sudden  gusts  or  swayed 
with  the  longer  and  moaning  surges.  Though 
February  had  scarcely  run  through  half  its  course, 
the  spirit  of  March  seemed  loose,  hunting  havoc. 
The  oppression  of  a  deliberate,  demoniac  will  for 
ruin  hung  heavily  upon  the  night:  the  sense  of 
sheer  purpose,  of  lust  for  the  wreckage  of  life,  was 
unescapable  and  ominous. 

He  stepped  from  the  bath,  dripping,  and  dried 
himself  with  rough  towels.  The  friction  routed 
some  of  the  languor  of  the  body:  the  blood  flowed 
warmly,  and  the  brain,  tired  but  stimulated,  re- 
sponded with  an  acknowledgment  of  satisfaction. 
He  went  back  to  his  bedroom,  knelt  for  a  brief 


12  ARCADIA 

prayer,  and  then,  getting  into  bed,  closed  his  eyes 
and  waited  for  sleep. 

He  had  left  one  night-light  burning.  Without 
opening  his  eyes,  he  was  aware  of  the  thin  flame,  so 
slight,  yet  dominating  the  shadows  of  the  room. 
"  As  purity,"  he  thought,  "  can  illumine  and  conquer 
all  the  darkness  of  man's  life." 

The  storm  increased  in  violence.  He  listened, 
vaguely,  knowing  that  somewhere  pain  and  peril 
would  pay  tribute.  The  floating  images,  which  so 
often  come  with  the  final  witchery  of  sleep,  sud- 
denly wavered  before  him,  dim,  and  then  vivid :  swift 
curves  of  faces  revolved,  mutable  and  mingling.  A 
grotesque  head  expanded  before  him,  thick-lipped 
and  evil-eyed:  abruptly,  it  was  merged  with  lines  of 
beauty.  A  girl's  face,  lovely  and  provocative, 
laughed,  and  receded.  He  strained  to  follow,  his 
eyes  answering  the  challenge,  his  lips  parted. 
Sleep  blotted  the  illusion. 

He  dreamed  fantastically  of  a  white-haired,  hook- 
nosed man,  very  old,  riding  whirlwinds  on  a  malacca 
cane,  of  which  the  handle  was  a  golden  eagle.  The 
old  man  gibed,  high  in  air,  as  he  passed  over  houses 
and  cottages,  and  looked  straight  down,  for  they 
were  roofless,  at  the  people  within,  men  and  women 
and  children,  sleeping  with  closed  eyes.  And  he  made 
bitter  jests,  calling  out  to  them  to  waken,  and  lose 
no  portion  of  the  misery  and  mockery  of  life;  to 
waken,  for  time  was  measured  and  they  had  urgent 


ARCADIA  13 

things  to  do.  Then,  laughing  shrilly,  he  flung  down 
handfuls  of  frozen  clouds,  which  broke  into  icy  hail 
and  pattered  upon  the  floors  of  the  roofless  rooms, 
causing  a  continued  tinkling,  like  the  ringing  of  ... 

He  sat  up,  conscious  and  alert.  His  electric  bell 
was  sounding.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the 
speaking  tube  at  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"Hello!  Yes.  What  is  it,  please?  What?  Good 
God!  I  will  be  down  in  one  minute,  Mrs.  Harring- 
ton." 

He  dressed  swiftly  and  went  downstairs,  taking  his 
overcoat  and  a  cap  as  he  passed  through  the  hall. 
He  stopped  in  the  dining-room  to  put  on  the  boots 
that  were  waiting  by  the  dying  fire,  and  then, 
hurrying  on  through  the  surgery,  turned  the  key. 

His  actions  had  been  astonishingly  rapid,  yet, 
throughout,  so  controlled  that  they  appeared  spa- 
cious and  deliberate.  He  was  ready,  because  he  had 
been  prepared  to  be  ready;  because,  on  the  chair 
by  his  bed,  his  clothes  had  been  ready,  in  the  order 
in  which  they  would  be  needed.  Method  had  justified 
itself. 

He  opened  the  door.  A  woman  was  waiting  in  the 
porch.  He  drew  her  inside. 

"  But  this  is  madness,  Mrs.  Harrington,"  he  said 
decisively.  He  did  not  close  the  inner  door. 


CHAPTER    HI 

THE  wind  was  still  howling,  but  the  rain  had 
almost  ceased. 

In  the  glow  of  the  red  lamp  that  hung 
in  the  porch,  the  face  of  the  woman  was  tinted, 
making  less  apparent  the  exhaustion  buffeted  into 
it  by  the  storm,  and  the  fear  that  had  called  her 
out  on  a  night  so  harsh.  The  delicate  profile  seemed 
shrivelled  by  the  stinging  cold  that  had  been  flung 
furiously  upon  it :  her  clothes  hung  limply,  wet  and 
stained  with  mire;  as  she  breathed  unevenly,  she 
quivered.  Curiously,  while  Ward  looked  at  her,  a 
derelict  from  the  darkness,  a  thought  shaped  itself 
which  had  not  come  to  him  before,  when  he  had 
seen  her  in  the  light  and  warmth  of  her  house. 
"  She  has  been  a  beautiful  woman."  It  was  almost 
like  an  actual  voice. 

He  took  her  to  a  chair. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  Walter  —  he  —  I  was  fright- 
ened—" 

"  Sit  down,"  Ward  said  curtly.  He  turned  away, 
lit  a  spirit-lamp,  and  filled  the  small  kettle  with 
water.  "  How  did  you  get  here?  "  he  asked.  "  Who 
drove  you  ?  " 


ARCADIA  15 

She  looked  at  him,  surprised  at  the  question  and 
the  tone.  "  Where  could  I  get  a  carriage?  "  she 
asked. 

"  How  did  you  come?  "  he  repeated. 

"  I  walked,  of  course." 

"  From  your  house  —  here  —  in  the  darkness  — 
on  a  night  like  this  ?  "  His  eyes  gleamed.  "  My 
God !  "  he  said  to  himself. 

"  I  had  to  come."  She  rose.  "  Dr.  Ward,  I  — 
I  think  Walter  is  dying."  She  held  out  a  hand 
beseechingly.  "  Please  come.  It  took  so  long  for 
me  to  get  here,  and  I  —  I  do  not  know  what  may 
have  happened."  Her  head  sank.  "  He  may  be 
dead.  Walter  may  be  dead." 

She  swayed.  Ward  pushed  her  gently  into  the 
chair  again.  "  We  will  go  at  once,"  he  said.  "  I 
have  everything  ready.  Wait  for  me."  He  went 
out,  buttoning  his  coat,  to  the  barn  that  served  as 
a  garage.  In  a  little  while  she  heard  the  whirring 
of  the  car,  and  he  came  in.  She  went  toward 
him. 

"  One  moment,"  he  said,  busying  himself  with 
the  boiling  kettle.  Scarcely  conscious  of  anything 
except  the  necessity  for  haste,  she  saw  him  —  she 
remembered  afterwards  —  coming  to  her  with  a 
glass,  which  steamed.  Without  waiting  for  his 
order,  she  drank,  gasping.  The  contents  were 
tasteless  to  her.  In  her  numbed  condition,  she 
could  not  have  distinguished  undiluted  brandy  from 


16  ARCADIA 

water.  Her  throat  was  burnt,  that  was  all.  To 
save  time,  she  had  gulped,  when  she  should  have 
sipped. 

In  a  few  seconds,  they  were  leaping  through  the 
mud  of  the  uneven  road.  The  wind,  which  she  had 
faced  when  coming,  was  behind  them  now.  As  she 
leaned  back,  swathed  in  rugs,  her  brain  was  busy 
with  a  verbal  tattoo.  Whirling  wheels !  How  won- 
derful was  this  speed,  which  could  annihilate  dis- 
tance. Whirling  wheels!  The  reiteration  seemed 
to  fill  the  night. 

"  Mrs.  Harrington."  Ward  repeated  the  name 
before  she  realized  that  he  had  addressed  her. 

He  saw  that  she  was  listening.  "  If  somebody 
had  to  come,  why  not  your  husband?  " 

She  looked  at  him  appealingly.  "  He  could  n't," 
she  said. 

"  Why  ? "  Ward  demanded,  swerving  the  car 
round  a  corner. 

"  He  could  n't,"  she  repeated.  A  sense  of  the 
paltriness  and  futility  of  concealment  swept  over 
her:  loyalty  was  submerged  by  resentment,  by 
sudden  overwhelming  antagonism  directed  against 
this  man,  her  husband,  who  could  not  keep  sober 
for  one  night,  while  his  only  child  was  dying.  "  He 
was  drunk,"  she  added  to  herself,  deliberately.  It 
was  her  revolt  from  the  slavery  and  degradation 
of  years.  Afterwards,  she  regretted  that  she  had 
framed  the  words,  even  in  thought.  It  seemed  like 


ARCADIA  17 

tainting  herself  with  his  rankness.  She  felt  as  if 
she  had  spoken  aloud. 

Ward  imagined  that  she  had.  He  could  picture 
the  scene  —  the  lonely  house,  far  from  neighbours ; 
the  sick-room,  the  wearing  anxiety;  and  suddenly, 
the  relapse  which  he  had  known  was  possible,  though 
the  boy  seemed  to  be  doing  splendidly.  He  saw  the 
sodden,  helpless  man;  the  strange  nurse  (he  was 
glad  that  he  had  insisted  upon  the  nurse)  watching 
the  boy,  worried,  but  utterly  unable  to  leave  her 
charge  and  venture  into  the  unknown  lanes  to  sum- 
mon help.  And  Mrs.  Harrington  herself  —  how,  in 
God's  name,  had  she  drifted  into  marriage  with  this 
mere  brute  —  a  man,  at  his  best,  before  decadence, 
utterly  inferior?  The  mystery  irked  him.  He 
glanced  at  her,  swiftly.  It  seemed  strange  to  think 
that  that  frail  form  had  fought  through  the  long 
miles;  stumbling,  running;  deluged  by  the  rain, 
beaten  back  by  the  remorseless  tempest,  but  strain- 
ing on  again,  frozen,  gasping.  An  immense  pity 
surged  in  him  for  the  woman  to  whom  such  a  tragedy 
was  merely  the  appropriate  sequel  to  sad  days. 

Far  to  the  right,  he  could  see  now  the  glow  of 
the  great  Hurst  ironworks.  The  furnaces  belched 
flames,  flaring  beacons  in  the  darkness.  He  fancied 
he  could  hear  the  clang  of  hammers,  the  hum  of 
myriad  toilers.  The  night  was  not  vacant.  Men 
were  abroad,  doing  man's  work. 

He   took  the  last   turn.      The  house,  dimly  lit, 


18  ARCADIA 

became  visible.  Mrs.  Harrington  was  perfectly 
silent  as  he  stopped  the  car  and  helped  her  to  get 
out. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  he  said,  assuringly.  "  You 
have  not  had  your  journey  in  vain.  Don't  be 
afraid.  We  will  pull  him  through  together,  you 
and  —  "  He  stopped  abruptly.  A  shadow  seemed 
to  float  through  his  head.  He  remembered  that  he 
had  slept  for  only  three  hours  and  that  there  were 
arrears  from  other  nights. 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Harrington  looked  at  the  car.  "  It  did  n't 
take  so  long  to  come,"  she  said,  "  as  it  did  to  go." 

"  It  must  have  seemed  like  days  to  you,"  Ward 
answered. 

He  lifted  his  bag  from  the  compartment  at  the 
back  of  the  car  and  followed  her  into  the  house. 
The  wind  flung  itself  at  the  door  as  he  closed  it: 
the  strength  of  one  hand  was  barely  sufficient. 

He  took  off  his  overcoat  and  cap,  and  went  up- 
stairs. As  he  passed  a  door  on  the  landing,  he 
could  hear  the  stertorous  breathing  of  the  drunkard. 
Before  he  would  enter  the  sick-room,  he  insisted 
that  Mrs.  Harrington  should  leave  him  and  put 
on  dry  clothes.  On  the  nurse's  assurance  that  her 
boy  was  no  worse,  she  went.  Ward  commenced  his 
task. 


CHAPTER    IV 

PAIN  is  a  harsh  thing:  it  is  not  always  easy 
to  reconcile  its  existence  in  extreme  forms 
with  the  doctrine  of  suave  omnipotence. 
Yet  the  feeble  cries  of  little  souls  are  very  vain: 
is  God  unjust,  because  limbs  are  mangled  and  hearts 
are  racked  in  the  long  or  sudden  catastrophes  of 
life?  The  potter  works  with  his  clay;  cuts  it  and 
forms  it ;  flings  away  fragments.  And  always  he 
looks  to  the  completed  work,  the  final  beauty  and 
utility.  The  fragments  are  not  wasted.  On  a  day, 
they  shall  come  to  him  again,  pressed  together,  raw 
material  for  his  moulding.  The  lives  that  die,  the 
flesh  and  blood  that  are  buried  with  weeping  in  un- 
timely graves,  —  their  turn  will  come.  Discarded 
now,  that  beauty  may  be  made  manifest  and  purpose 
fulfilled,  they  will  be  used  again  in  an  appropriate 
hour:  refashioned,  fired,  glazed,  and  made  service- 
able in  their  order.  Yet  comprehension  is  always 
hard,  and,  at  the  best,  imperfect.  Often  it  would 
seem,  not  that  a  God  made  the  universe,  but  that 
the  universe  is  making  a  God:  little  by  little  strain- 
ing forward  to  a  higher  type;  caring  for  the  pres- 
ent only  in  that  it  contains  the  germ  of  the  ulti- 
mate and  single  perfection. 


20  ARCADIA 

Just  before  dawn,  the  boy  died. 

Ward  had  fought  for  him  with  the  skill  and  de- 
votion that  scarcely  excite  comment  in  this  genera- 
tion of  miracles,  because  they  are  so  usual.  Yet 
he  had  realized,  with  the  absolute  finality  which 
seemed  to  characterize  many  of  his  impressions,  that 
defeat  was  inevitable.  He  alleviated  the  suffering: 
that,  at  least,  was  within  his  power.  Toward  the 
end,  though  knowing  that  it  would  weaken  the 
heart,  he  administered  an  opiate.  Why,  when  every 
breath  was  drawn  with  agony  and  death  was  as- 
sured, should  he  insist  upon  consciousness  and 
make  the  tragedy  more  acute  for  the  dying  boy, 
and  the  living  woman  who  waited  and  watched,  dry- 
eyed,  her  heart  shrivelling  with  the  fierceness  of  that 
flame  of  anguish?  The  boy  died,  sleeping,  if  such 
unconsciousness  be  sleep;  his  last  dim  feeling,  his 
mother's  kisses;  his  last  remembrance,  her  hand 
on  his,  her  smile  (God  bless  such  women!)  speeding 
him  to  rest.  Surely  better  far  this  quiet  gliding 
to  what  may  wait  beyond,  than  the  horrid  gasp  for 
breath,  the  quivering  body  stabbed  with  pain;  the 
unquiet  eye,  with  its  mournful  accusation;  and  all 
the  grievous  circumstance  of  undue  dissolution. 

When  it  was  over,  his  mother  kissed  him,  and 
then,  kneeling  for  a  little  while,  tried  to  pray.  The 
nurse,  inured  to  sorrow,  knelt  with  her,  her  woman- 
hood only  apparent:  of  the  two,  she  was  the  less 
composed.  Ward  went  out  of  the  room:  it  seemed 


ARCADIA  21 

better  for  him  not  to  stay.  Suddenly,  he  remem- 
bered the  boy's  father.  He  went  to  the  door  which 
he  had  passed  as  he  came  in,  when  the  stertorous 
breathing  of  the  drunkard  came  to  him  nauseat- 
ingly.  Turning  the  knob,  he  entered.  The  man 
lay  on  his  bed,  fully  clothed:  the  blood-vessels  of 
his  face  were  distended ;  his  cheeks  were  purple ;  his 
creased  neck,  red.  Ward  shook  him,  deliberately; 
compelled  him  to  waken;  dragged  him  from  his 
stupor  to  a  miserable  awareness  of  existence.  It 
was  mere  brutality,  appropriate  to  a  brute. 

The  doctor  put  a  pillow  under  his  head  and 
forced  him  into  a  semi-recumbent  posture.  "  Can 
you  hear  me?  "  he  said.  Without  waiting  for  an 
answer,  he  shook  him  again,  not  roughly.  "  Your 
son  is  dead,"  he  said.  "  Dead.  Do  you  under- 
stand? Walter  is  dead.  He  died  while  you  were 
drunk."  He  could  have  struck  him,  but  he  turned 
away  and  left  the  room.  The  drunkard's  gaze  fol- 
lowed him,  half  vacuously,  half  comprehending. 

He  went  downstairs  and  put  on  his  overcoat; 
then,  remembering  his  bag,  returned  reluctantly  to 
the  room  where  the  dead  boy  lay.  He  was  glad  to 
see  the  perfectly  normal  expression  of  the  face. 
Mrs.  Harrington  came  out  with  him  when  he  had 
collected  his  appliances.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
he  had  never  seen  anyone  so  calm,  in  correspond- 
ing conditions. 

They  went  together  into  a  room  on  the  ground- 


22  ARCADIA 

floor  —  the  living-room,  evidently :  in  a  small  house, 
the  convenient  distinctions  of  wealth  or  competence 
cannot  always  be  maintained.  She  had  changed 
her  clothes,  at  Ward's  authoritative  request:  the 
black  garments  that  had  hung  limply  about  her, 
saturated  and  mud-stained,  were  replaced  with  simple 
white,  which  suited  her  perfectly.  The  dignity  of 
severe  sorrow,  of  emotion  rigidly  controlled,  added 
to  the  appeal  of  her  rather  sharp  features:  few 
grow  fat  on  unhappiness  or  retain  softness  and 
flexibility  through  years  of  sordid  endurance.  Her 
figure  was  slight  —  almost  girlish ;  and  her  man- 
ner had  ease  and  distinction. 

Ward  was  struck  by  her  peculiar  restraint  and 
the  harmony  of  her  appearance.  More  acutely,  he 
marvelled  at  her  choice  of  a  husband,  at  the  destiny 
which  had  brought  her  to  an  obscure  home,  amongst 
toilers,  in  a  place  sacrificed  to  the  unloveliness  of 
large  industries.  He  imagined  that  she  had  had 
many  suitors,  that  her  selection  could  have  been 
made  in  a  class  far  different  from  the  one  with 
which  she  had  identified  herself.  She  had  breeding, 
unmistakably:  the  subtle  stamp  of  caste  had  not 
been  effaced. 

She  looked  into  his  eyes.  In  hers,  was  the  ap- 
peal sometimes  seen  in  those  of  children  orphaned 
from  infancy:  the  pain  of  loneliness,  imperfectly 
understood;  the  groping  toward  a  solution  of  the 
enigma. 


ARCADIA  23 

"  He  was  a  good  boy,"  she  said  at  last.  "  Up- 
right, straight-limbed,  clean-hearted.  I  do  not 
understand  why  he  is  dead."  She  stood  quite  still. 
"  I  am  a  Christian,  Dr.  Ward.  I  have  tried  to  live, 
so  far  as  a  woman's  will  could  carry  me,  as  our 
Lord  has  taught  us.  I  have  tried  to  help  my  boy, 
so  that  he  would  have  ideals,  and  reverence,  and 
simplicity.  It  seemed  that  that  was  my  task,  of 
duty,  and  love,  and  gladness;  that  its  fulfilment 
was  my  glory,  the  end  for  which  I  was  born,  to 
which  all  my  hopes  and  fears  and  natural  strivings 
tended  inevitably  from  the  beginning.  I  cannot 
understand  why  he  is  dead.  It  seems  so  —  so  arbi- 
trary, or  careless.  Surely  high  endeavours  cannot 
be  subject  to  utter  chance!  Why  has  God  erased 
him,  as  if  he  were  a  mistake,  a  triviality?  " 

"  It  is  difficult  to  understand,"  Ward  said,  simply. 
"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  Mrs.  Harrington.  I 
know  there  is  a  reason;  there  must  be.  Perhaps 
he  has  been  spared  great  pain.  Life  is  rarely 
happy,  though  we  cling  to  it.  It  must  be  far 
better  to  be  at  rest;  quite  free  from  sorrow  and 
sin;  so  very  quiet." 

"  So  very  quiet,"  she  repeated.  She  moved  away, 
and  came  back.  "  It  seems  unjust,"  she  said. 

"  Not  unjust,"  Ward  answered.  "  Nothing  can 
be  unjust,  however  greatly  it  may  hurt,  unless  we 
ourselves  are  responsible  for  it.  Perhaps,  if  he  had 
lived,  he  might  have  been  —  afflicted.  There  may 


24  ARCADIA 

have  been  something  in  him  that  would  have  de- 
veloped, and  inevitably  brought  suffering  .  .  ." 

"  You  think  he  might  have  become  like  his 
father?  "  she  asked. 

Ward  did  not  attempt  evasion.  He  knew  that 
pain  can  partially  neutralize  pain.  "  It  is  pos- 
sible," he  said. 

Mrs.  Harrington  bowed  her  head.  "  Even  if  he 
had  become  a  drunkard,  he  could  never  have  been 
utterly  base.  He  had  the  gift  of  really  loving 
beauty.  Many  pretend  to.  With  him,  it  was  an 
instinct.  Yet  he  is  dead.  He  will  kiss  me  no  more 
with  warm  lips.  Dr.  Ward,  I  am  trying  to  be  re- 
signed, and  to  accept  a  great  sorrow  in  the  spirit 
of  a  Christian  .  .  ."  She  sat  down.  "  Forgive 
me.  I  have  no  right  to  distress  you.  You  have 
been  very,  very  kind.  You  have  done  so  much  for 
me,  and  for  Walter.  No  doubt  it  is  better  for 
him  to  be  dead.  But  I  do  not  like  to  think  of 
the  coldness  .  .  .  the  body  becomes  icy,  does  n't 
it?  ...  And  his  lips  had  such  a  beautiful  curve, 
a  perfect  Cupid's  bow,  Dr.  Ward.  I  have  some- 
times thought  of  him  getting  older  and  entering 
into  a  man's  heritage  .  .  .  loving  purely.  .  .  . 
But  he  is  dead.  It  is  finished." 

Ward  did  not  know  what  to  say.  There  was 
silence  for  a  little  while.  Then  —  grotesquely,  in- 
congruously, horribly  —  the  sound  of  heavy,  clumsy 
footsteps  came  to  him,  as  a  gross  body  lowered 


ARCADIA  25 

itself  from  step  to  step  of  the  creaking  stairs.  They 
waited,  looking  toward  the  door.  The  suspense 
seemed  intolerable. 

Harrington  lurched  in.  The  purple  had  gone 
from  his  face,  the  raw  redness  from  his  creased 
neck.  His  eyes,  bloodshot,  were  fixed  in  a  disquiet- 
ing stare.  Slowly,  he  moved  them;  perceived  his 
wife  and  Ward;  watched  them,  evidently  ill  at  ease. 

"  What 's  this  about  Walter?  "  he  asked.  "  Eh?  " 
He  clutched  a  chair  and  moved  it  slowly  with  him, 
as  he  came  nearer. 

Mrs.  Harrington  closed  her  eyes.  "  Tell  him, 
please,"  she  said. 

Ward  took  a  step  toward  the  paranoiac.  "Walter 
—  is  dead,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Aye?"  said  Harrington.  "So?"  He  stood 
for  a  moment,  breathing  noisily;  then  turned,  and 
walked,  swaying,  out  of  the  room.  They  heard 
again  his  heavy,  clumsy  footsteps  as  he  mounted 
the  stairs. 

The  tension  had  been  extreme.  As  the  sounds 
receded,  and  ceased,  the  strained  nerves  relaxed 
abruptly.  Mrs.  Harrington  even  smiled:  it  was 
a  spasm  of  pain,  curiously  distorted. 

"  Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper,  almost  as  if  she  were  asking  herself  a 
question.  She  rose,  and  was  walking  from  the  room, 
her  face  set,  her  eyes  shining.  She  seemed  uncon- 
scious of  Ward's  presence. 


26  ARCADIA 

He  detained  her. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Mrs.  Harrington?  " 

"  To  light  the  lamps,"  she  answered.  "  It  is 
dark.  I  cannot  see." 

"  There  is  enough  light,"  he  said,  gently.  "  Try 
to  listen  to  me,  Mrs.  Harrington.  You  are  tired, 
utterly  worn  out.  You  must  go  to  bed.  You 
understand?  You  must,  at  once." 

She  nodded.  The  strength  in  him,  the  deliberate 
will,  controlled  her. 

"  You  will  sleep,"  he  continued.  "  When  you 
wake,  you  will  be  yourself  again.  There  is  one 
other  thing.  You  ought  to  have  somebody  with 
you  —  somebody  whom  you  know  well  and  can  trust 
—  a  relative,  perhaps.  Is  there  anyone  whom  you 
could  ask  to  come?  Think." 

She  obeyed  him  like  a  child,  puckering  her 
brows.  "  There  is  my  sister,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  I  have  not  seen  her  for  a  long  time,  but  she 
would  come." 

He  took  out  his  note-book.  "  Her  name  and  ad- 
dress, please?  I  will  telegraph  to  her." 

She  crossed  to  a  small  table  and  picked  up  an 
unsealed  letter.  "  I  had  written  to  her,"  she  said, 
"  before  —  Walter  was  worse.  I  need  not  send  the 
letter  now."  She  drew  out  the  sheet  of  note-paper 
and  gave  him  the  envelope.  "  That  is  the  address." 

He  put  the  envelope  in  his  pocket.  "You  will 
go  to  sleep  now  ?  "  he  asked. 


ARCADIA  27 

"  Yes."  •  She  had  recovered  her  composure. 
"  Thank  you  for  all  your  kindness." 

He  held  her  hand  for  a  moment,  and  again,  as 
when  he  had  first  seen  her,  a  storm-waif,  in  his 
surgery,  he  realized  that  her  beauty  must  have 
been  remarkable  before  unhappiness  shadowed  it. 
His  pity  for  her  overflowed  the  ordinary  barriers 
of  restraint.  Bending  his  head,  he  touched  her 
hand  with  his  lips.  Afterwards,  the  incident  seemed 
stilted  and  sentimental.  At  the  time,  it  was  almost 
involuntary  —  an  act  of  homage  to  a  woman  who 
had  knelt  at  the  shrines  of  loveliness  and  sorrow, 
and  given  gifts. 


CHAPTER    V 

IT  was  nearly  two  hours  after  sunrise  when  Ward 
started  his  car  and  glided  away  from  the  soli- 
tary house.  The  wind  was  blowing  gustily, 
though  not  with  the  extreme  violence  of  the  night: 
the  sky,  still  sombre,  was  littered  with  wreckage 
of  clouds,  hurried  again  interminably  to  the  west, 
which  had  sent  them  out,  slow,  vast,  and  threaten- 
ing, for  many  ominous  days.  The  storm,  with  its 
savagery,  was  over:  flotsam  remained  as  its  record. 
He  did  not  retrace  the  course  that  he  had  fol- 
lowed on  the  journey  out,  but  turned  into  New- 
church,  where  there  was  a  branch  post  office,  at- 
tached to  a  grocer's  shop.  It  took  him  some  time 
to  compose  what  he  considered  a  satisfactory  tele- 
gram, asking  Mrs.  Harrington's  sister  to  come  to 
her  without  delay:  when  he  had  finished,  he  drew 
out  the  envelope  that  had  been  given  to  him,  to 
transcribe  the  address.  He  read,  with  some  sur- 
prise, "  Lady  Winter,  Hyde  Park  Hotel,  London, 
W."  The  name  was  unfamiliar  to  him,  but  it  in- 
creased his  astonishment  at  Mrs.  Harrington's  sad 
and  lonely  life,  and  the  causes  that  had  brought 
her  within  that  dreary  environment. 


ARCADIA  29 

He  passed  the  form  to  the  gawky  girl  who  was 
staring,  as  if  fascinated,  at  his  own  face.  While 
he  was  paying  the  charges,  the  proprietor,  Mr. 
Balding,  came  in.  He  was  a  little  man,  somewhat 
corpulent,  and  with  an  excessively  red  complexion: 
an  important  little  man,  for  he  owned,  besides  the 
grocery  store,  the  public  house  adjoining — the 
chief  public  house  of  the  village,  discreetly  con- 
ducted. Mr.  Balding  was  no  panderer  to  a  de- 
praved appetite  for  alcohol.  He  had  inherited  the 
inn  and  managed  it  with  a  due  sense  of  responsi- 
bility. On  Sundays,  conspicuously,  and  unobtru- 
sively on  week-days,  he  was  a  pillar  of  the  Church. 
As  vicar's  warden,  he  held  a  position  of  dignity. 
As  the  richest  man  in  the  village,  he  added  eclat 
to  that  position. 

He  saluted  the  doctor,  cordially;  surveyed  him, 
as  if  measuring  the  possibilities  of  news ;  but  asked 
no  questions.  Ward  was  indisposed  to  talk.  He 
noticed  that  the  girl  still  stared  while  collecting 
the  coins  that  he  had  placed  on  the  counter.  Her 
utter  unattractiveness  seemed  almost  irksome.  It 
was  incongruous  for  a  woman  to  be  without  charm 
of  any  kind. 

As  he  drove  home,  he  perceived  that  the  clayey 
mud  of  the  road  was  already  caking.  About  half 
way,  he  overtook  a  girl  who  was  tramping  steadily 
on.  He  glanced  with  approval  at  her  thin,  grave 
face  and  lithe  figure. 


30  ARCADIA 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Heath,"  he  called,  stop- 
ping the  car.  "  Let  me  give  you  a  lift." 

She  hesitated.  "  I  don't  know,  doctor,"  she  said. 
"  The  last  time,  you  see,  you  took  me  half  way  to 
Hanford  and  at  least  three  miles  past  your  own 
house.  I  don't  like  you  to  do  that." 

"  The  motor  was  n't  tired,"  he  answered.  "  But 
that  was  two  months  ago.  You  have  evidently  a 
remarkable  memory.  I  won't  worry  you  this  time. 
Jump  in.  You  may  as  well  save  yourself  a  mile, 
you  know." 

He  was  glad  to  have  her  in  the  car.  She  brought 
with  her  an  atmosphere  of  quiet  strength  that  ap- 
pealed to  him. 

"  I  have  n't  seen  you  since  Christmas,"  he  said. 
"  Where  have  you  been  hiding  yourself?  " 

She  laughed.  "  In  my  usual  haunts  —  the  small 
house,  and  the  large  highway." 

"  What  kind  of  Christmas  did  you  have? "  he 
asked.  "  Quiet  but  happy,  with  the  mistletoe  over- 
worked? " 

"  Extremely  boisterous,"  she  answered  com- 
posedly. "  On  Christmas  Eve  we  decorated  the  cot- 
tage in  the  old  way  —  as  much  as  we  could  —  and 
fixed  up  a  fragment  of  mistletoe  —  just  on  the  off 
chance  that  it  might  be  appreciated.  Unfortu- 
nately, it  was  n't.  Still,  it  looked  suggestive.  Then 
we  pretended.  Make-believe  is  n't  so  easy  now  as 
it  used  to  be,  but  Lydia  and  I  are  rather  good 


ARCADIA  31 

at  it.  We  played  at  being  children,  and  hung  up 
our  stockings  very  carefully.  Then  we  told  each 
other  fairy  tales  till  we  fell  asleep.  It  was  quite 
exciting.  But  the  stockings  were  empty  in  the 
morning  and  the  excitement  had  worn  off;  so  we 
gave  each  other  a  sovereign  and  had  a  good  laugh 
over  it.  There  are  moments  in  life  when  one  must 
either  laugh  or  cry." 

"  If  she  had  been  two  years  older,  she  would 
have  omitted  the  last  sentence,"  Ward  reflected, 
critically. 

Miss  Heath  had  continued.  "  Afterwards,  we  went 
to  church,  of  course.  I  don't  remember  what  we 
did  in  the  afternoon:  just  nothing,  I  think.  In 
the  evening  we  played  blind  man's  buff  till  it  got 
monotonous.  It  soon  becomes  monotonous  when 
there  are  only  two  playing.  You  would  have  been 
amused  if  you  had  seen  us  when  we  had  sobered 
down.  It  was  very  quiet  —  so  quiet  that  we  found 
ourselves  walking  about  on  tip-toe  whenever  we 
wanted  to  get  anything.  It  was  a  great  day." 
She  laughed.  "  Now  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
stop,  doctor.  No,  not  another  yard.  Thank  you 
for  trying  to  make  me  lazy."  She  jumped  out.  "  I 
suppose  you  Ve  had  a  night  of  it? "  she  said. 
"  Don't  burn  the  candle  in  the  middle  as  well  as  at 
both  ends."  She  waved  her  hand  cheerfully  and 
trudged  on. 

He   watched  her   for   a   moment.      This   was   her 


32  ARCADIA 

daily  task  —  to  walk  five  miles  to  Hanf ord,  give 
music  lessons  for  a  pittance,  and  tramp  back  again. 
Generally,  she  had  her  violin  with  her,  in  its  case. 
He  wondered  where  it  was  that  morning.  Perhaps 
she  had  found  some  place  where  she  could  leave 
it  and  so  escape  the  burden  of  carrying  it  constantly 
to  and  fro. 

The  dreariness  that  limits  so  many  lives,  ap- 
palled him.  He  turned  the  car  abruptly,  ran  back 
a  little,  grazing  the  hedge,  and  swept  into  the 
roughly  paved  yard.  The  large,  uneven  stones, 
cleansed  by  the  rain,  were  grey-white.  A  few  pud- 
dles, not  yet  dried  by  the  wind,  remained  as  evi- 
dence of  the  deluge. 

Marple  did  not  respond  to  the  toot  of  the  horn, 
so  he  ran  the  car  into  the  barn  —  of  which  the 
doors  were  open  —  and  then  walked  back  to  the 
surgery.  As  he  passed  through  into  the  house,  an 
unmistakable  odour  greeted  him.  He  paused  by 
the  dining-room  door,  sniffed,  and  went  in.  In  two 
minutes  he  was  eating  ham  and  eggs,  and  drinking 
coffee,  marvelling  at  the  competence  of  Miss  Sands. 
He  did  not  know  that  that  admirable  woman  had 
watched  for  an  hour  and  a  half  from  an  attic  win- 
dow, waiting  till  the  car  came  into  view;  then, 
descending  to  the  kitchen,  she  had  prepared  sus- 
tenance for  the  weary.  This  is  the  way  in  which 
most  of  the  impromptus  of  genius  are  born. 

He  regarded  her  as  a  miracle  of  prevision;    told 


ARCADIA  33 

her  so  (knowing  that  recognition  in  little  things 
is  a  great  thing) ;  and  then,  comforted,  but  ut- 
terly tired  and  absurdly  conscious  of  an  unshaven 
chin,  was  withdrawing  to  his  bedroom:  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs,  he  remembered  Marple. 

"Miss  Sands!"  he  called. 

She  came  out. 

"  Marple  ?  "  he  asked,  briefly. 

"  He  has  gone  to  the  station,"  she  answered. 

Ward  nodded,  as  if  checking  off  an  item  that 
had  been  dealt  with.  "  There  was  a  letter  from  my 
grandfather?  " 

"  Lord  Daventry  wrote  that  he  would  come  by 
the  early  train."  She  looked  at  him  curiously. 
"  As  you  anticipated,"  she  added. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said.     "  I  will  be  down  soon." 

"  There  were  several  letters,"  she  suggested. 
"Will  you  look  at  them?" 

"  Not  now."  He  mounted  the  stairs.  "  If  any- 
body comes  for  me,  tell  them  to  wait ;  and  if  I  'm 
not  down  in  an  hour,  knock  me  up,  please."  He 
paused  on  the  landing.  "  The  boy  died,"  he  said ; 
and  went  on  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER    VI 

AN  hour  later,  he  came  down,  shaven  and  re- 
freshed, though  not  completely  alert.  But 
the  cold  water  into  which  he  had  plunged 
after  a  brief  nap,  had  brightened  him  up  and  dis- 
pelled the  strain  of  fatigue.  The  loss  of  sleep  for 
the  greater  part  of  two  nights,  and  the  anxiety  of 
his  work,  had  effect  chiefly  in  an  apparent  shadow 
round  the  eyes,  which  gave  a  slight  expression  of 
wistfulness  to  the  face. 

The  sun  had  broken  through  the  barriers  of 
clouds  and  was  shining  brightly.  The  wind  had  still 
further  decreased,  the  icy  nip  had  gone  from  the 
air,  and  the  freshness  of  premature  spring  trans- 
formed the  day  that  had  opened  sombrely,  shadowed 
by  the  storm. 

He  went  into  his  study  to  read  his  letters. 
Seated  in  an  easy  chair  was  an  old  man,  hook-nosed, 
almost  hairless:  the  shape  of  the  head  was  dis- 
tinctly aquiline.  His  eyes  were  grey-green,  and 
curiously  noticeable.  His  hands,  very  white,  were 
clasped  together,  and  he  was  gazing  into  the  heart 
of  the  fire,  with  his  thin  lips  curved  into  a  smile 
that  was  almost  a  sneer.  He  looked  round  as 


ARCADIA  35 

Ward  entered,  and  then  rose,  showing  a  figure 
slightly  under  medium  height,  though  the  general 
impression  of  shrinkage  made  it  seem  less. 

"  Good-morning,  Saint  John,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
unusually  high,  but  not  unpleasant. 

Ward  shook  hands.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you," 
he  said,  gravely.  "  I  have  been  looking  forward 
to  your  visit." 

"  Not  a  bit,"  the  old  man  retorted.  "  Lies,  mere 
lies:  conventional  and  pardonable,  but  still  mere 
lies.  Why  don't  you  tell  the  truth?  Why  don't 
you  tell  me  I  'm  a  nuisance,  an  incubus,  an  old  man 
of  the  sea?  Eh?  Well,  never  mind."  He  sat  down 
again.  "  So  your  saintship  has  been  out  all  night?  " 
He  glanced  at  the  pale,  resolute  face,  which  showed 
so  few  signs  of  weariness.  "  Soothing  anguish, 
bringing  comfort  to  the  afflicted,  and  generally  play- 
ing the  part  of  a  little  tin  god?  Eh?  You  medical 
people  always  remind  me  of  the  devil.  He  operates 
through  our  passions.  You  operate  wherever  you 
can.  It 's  a  curious  craving,  in  both  cases.  But  I 
prefer  the  devil.  He  gives  us  a  run  for  our  money. 
Eh?  " 

Ward  opened  his  letters.  "  I  have  n't  the  honour 
of  his  acquaintance,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

"  At  present,"  the  old  man  snapped.  "  But 
you  '11  soon  meet  him.  We  Wards  always  do.  We 
get  very  chummy.  There  's  some  peculiarity  in  our 
blood  that  makes  us  value  his  friendship.  He  knows 


36  ARCADIA 

so  many  pretty  women.  Perhaps  that  's  the  rea- 
son." He  stared  into  the  fire.  "  If  every  woman 
were  as  ugly  as  sin,  there  would  n't  be  many 
divorces." 

"  Or  many  marriages,  probably,"  Ward  put  in. 

"  A  man  does  n't  marry  a  woman  because  she  's 
pretty,  nowadays,"  Lord  Daventry  said.  "  He 
marries  her  because  she  has  a  pretty  way  with  her 
—  a  golden  way.  We  all  know  that.  It 's  worse 
than  ancient  history,  because  there  is  n't  any 
romance  in  it.  It 's  merely  an  economic  principle. 
We  shall  soon  get  into  the  habit  of  entering  our 
marriages  in  our  profit  and  loss  accounts :  so  much 
cash  on  one  side,  so  much  interest  due,  and  so  much 
wife  —  overdue  —  on  the  other,  the  debit  side.  But 
divorces  —  ugly  women  are  never  divorced :  they 
divorce  their  husbands.  It 's  rank  improvidence, 
because  they  may  never  replace  them.  But  I  sup- 
pose they  don't  like  to  be  merely  shareholders  in- 
stead of  directors.  It 's  curious  that  single  women 
should  always  have  a  double  charm  for  married 
men,  and  married  women  for  bachelors.  It  shows 
the  power  of  knowledge.  Unmarried  women  don't 
know  what  a  married  man  does,  and  married  women 
know  what  a  bachelor  doesn't  —  in  theory.  Eh? 
All  attraction  is  based  on  ignorance  —  on  one  side, 
at  least.  That  is  why  the  serpent  was  such  a  nui- 
sance in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  He  destroyed  Eve's 
charm  by  making  her  realize  that  she  was  charm- 


ARCADIA  37 

ing.  Immediately,  she  hankered  for  fig-leaves.  Men 
have  been  paying  large  millinery  bills  ever  since." 

The  sinister  old  man  prattled  on. 

Ward  finished  his  letters,  and  wrote  a  brief  note. 

"  I  must  go  out  now,"  he  said.  "  Would  you 
care  to  come  with  me?  " 

Lord  Daventry  suppressed  an  epigram.  "  I  shall 
be  delighted  to  resume  acquaintance  with  your 
patients  —  if  any  of  last  year's  crop  survive.  By 
the  way,  how  is  time  dealing  with  its  little  Sands? 
The  admirable  woman  seems  to  have  aged,  John; 
though  that  is  possibly  a  reflection  from  my  own 
too-obvious  condition.  Yet  she  has  a  singular 
charm  —  from  the  culinary  point  of  view.  She 
welcomed  me  with  dignity,  and  with  poached  eggs ; 
soothed  me  with  kindly  attentions,  and  with  coffee; 
criticised  me,  doubtless,  with  dry  humour,  as  she 
provided  the  dry  toast  that  my  soul,  if  I  possess 
one,  persistently  craves.  She  seems  to  make  a 
hobby  of  remembering  one's  special  preference.  I 
asked  her  how  she  did  it.  She  said  it  was  less 
trouble  to  remember  than  to  make  an  effort  to  for- 
get. An  astonishing  woman,  but  not  vivacious." 

"  Miss  Sands  does  not  seem  to  me  to  have  grown 
older,"  Ward  said.  "  She  is  one  of  the  people 
whom  time  never  catches  unprepared." 

"  You  have  infected  her  with  your  vices,"  re- 
joined the  old  man.  "  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  be 
immaculate.  Perfection  is  a  sin.  One  can  commit 


38  ARCADIA       y 

adultery,  for  example,  and  still  have  a  sense  of 
humour.  But  one  cannot  commit  perfection  with- 
out losing  one's  self-respect  and  breaking  every 
commandment  in  the  decalogue.  If  I  could  remem- 
ber them  at  the  moment,  I  would  elaborate  my  point 
to  your  entire  dissatisfaction." 

"  I  am  convinced  of  it,"  Ward  assented,  glancing 
at  his  watch.  "  Will  it  suit  you  if  we  start  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour?  " 

"  Perfectly."  His  gaze  lingered  curiously  upon 
his  grandson's  face  —  the  high  brow,  surmounted 
by  jet-black  hair;  the  small,  firm  mouth,  with  the 
scarlet  border.  "  You  slept  well,  I  trust,  in  the 
rather  short  space  of  time  at  your  disposal?  Eh?  " 

Their  eyes  met  —  the  clear  grey  of  the  younger 
man,  the  grey-green  of  the  older.  Both  smiled,  a 
trifle  mockingly. 

"  I  slept  profoundly,"  Ward  answered,  moving 
from  the  room.  "  If  it  will  not  take  you  more  than 
thirteen  minutes  to  put  on  your  hat,  we  shall  be 
able  to  start  punctually." 

At  eleven  o'clock,  they  drove  out  in  the  dog-cart, 
Marple  behind.  Lord  Daventry  noted  with  ap- 
proval the  clean,  well-cared-for  trap,  the  polished 
harness,  the  shining  silver.  The  colour  scheme  was 
black,  with  no  thin  red  lines  of  discord.  Marple's 
livery  harmonized:  his  grave,  close-shaven  face  set 
the  seal  of  distinction  upon  the  turn-out.  Ward 
himself,  however,  was  dressed  in  light  grey,  with  a 


ARCADIA  39 

soft  felt  hat  to  correspond.  His  grandfather, 
frock-coated,  silk-hatted,  very  precise,  sneered  com- 
petently at  the  surroundings. 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows  as  they  passed  through 
the  gate. 

"Pig-sties?" 

"  The  same  pig-sties,"  Ward  said,  "  in  the  same 
place.  A  little  older;  perhaps  a  little  more 
weather-worn:  but  recognizable.  You  will  remem- 
ber that  you  noticed  them  the  last  time  you  were 
here;  also,  the  time  before." 

"  My  eyesight  is  evidently  unimpaired,"  the  old 
man  rejoined,  composedly.  "  But  if  pig-sties,  why 
not  pigs  ?  And  if  pigs,  why  not  —  " 

"  Quite  so,"  Ward  interposed.  "  I  will  think 
seriously  about  your  recommendation." 

Lord  Daventry  turned  his  attention  to  the  neg- 
lected road,  the  straggling  fence  of  decayed  posts 
and  old  wire  that  limited  the  footpath  on  one  side, 
and  the  sequence  of  dreary  scenes  on  the  other :  — 
the  rusty  rails  and  rotten  ties  of  an  abandoned 
cross-line;  disorderly  mounds  of  the  refuse  of  a 
mineral  country;  infrequent  cottages  with  bare 
and  gloomy  gardens. 

"  Arcadia,"  he  observed,  sniffing. 

"  Glad  you  like  it,"  Ward  responded,  genially. 
"  I  knew  your  sense  of  beauty  was  reliable,  though 
shy." 

"  Arcadia,"    the    old    gentleman    repeated,    with 


40  ARCADIA 

authority.  "  But  in  a  raw  state.  Very  raw.  In 
a  few  generations  after  your  death,  the  neighbour- 
hood will  begin  to  be  habitable.  The  thought  must 
be  peculiarly  exhilarating  to  you.  I  begin  to  under- 
stand why,  with  your  temperament  and  traditions, 
you  have  chosen  this  environment.  You  are  look- 
ing forward  to  the  future.  It  is  very  provident 
to  look  so  far  ahead.  But  you  have  youth  and 
hope  —  admirable  lenses  for  a  time-telescope.  They 
reflect  what  you  wish  to  see.  We  blase  people  have 
to  be  contented  with  the  opera-glasses  of  age  and 
the  artificial  light  of  experience;  and  what  we  see 
is  sometimes  a  rather  painful  reflection  of  our 
wishes.  Disillusion  has  its  sad  moments.  Marriage 
is  an  obvious  example.  I  assure  you  that  only  a 
man  who  is  capable  of  anything  is  incapable  of 
remorse.  We  who  draw  the  line  at  every  folly," 
he  paused  almost  imperceptibly  for  the  desired 
effect,  "  of  which  we  happen  to  be  ignorant  —  well, 
we  pay  for  the  omissions.  Neglected  opportunities 
can  never  be  replaced,  and  unhatched  chickens  have 
a  habit  of  roosting  in  their  ghostly  addled  eggs 
upon  the  walls  that  circumscribe  our  little  lives 
—  the  humpty-dumpties  of  improvidence.  Always 
hatch  your  chickens,  John.  Every  city  is  a  con- 
venient incubator.  Regret  nothing  that  you  do. 
That  was  Nietzsche's  legacy  to  mankind:  having 
bequeathed  it,  he  changed  his  mind  and  became  in- 
sane. Genius,  like  all  tyrannies,  has  its  drawbacks: 


ARCADIA  41 

for  time  is  curiously  democratic.  Where  is  there 
a  republic  so  consistent  as  a  cemetery?  Eh?  " 

They  were  passing  the  parish  church,  with  its 
records  of  the  dead  —  crosses  and  slabs  of  stone, 
time-worn,  defaced,  and  slanting,  or  still  erect  and 
uncorroded,  marking  more  recent  gleanings:  here 
and  there,  pretentious  granite  proclaimed  the  little 
pride  of  wealth.  One  large  vault,  iron-railed  and 
massive,  loomed  sombrely,  the  monarch  of  those  mute 
memorials. 

The  old  man  pointed.  "  All  the  distinctions  of 
caste  above,"  he  said,  "  but  very  little  distinction 
underneath." 

They  drove  to  the  vicarage.  The  vicar  himself 
was  in  the  garden,  playing  laboriously  with  a  rake. 
Age  sat  heavily  upon  his  heavy  frame.  His  scanty 
hair  was  almost  white:  his  beard,  unusually  long 
and  full,  had  patriarchal  implications.  He  stooped 
as  he  walked;  stooped  when  he  drew  himself  to  his 
utmost  height.  In  his  melancholy  eyes,  the  ashes 
of  enthusiasm  barely  smouldered.  His  large  hand 
quivered  as  he  held  it  out:  his  voice  was  cavernous, 
his  manner  mystical.  He  seemed,  while  he  gazed  at 
their  faces,  to  be  peering  through  them  into  a  world 
of  dim  memories,  which  they  occluded. 

He  welcomed  them  gravely. 

"  A  rather  unusual  visit,  Dr.  Ward,"  he  said. 
"  A  rather  unusual  visit  —  fortunately."  He  soft- 
ened the  unintended  suggestion.  "  I  mean,  of 


42  ARCADIA 

course,  that  my  robust  health  makes  it  unnecessary 
for  me  to  ask  for  your  aid  professionally.  I  have 
much  to  be  thankful  for.  Much  to  be  thankful 
for." 

Lord  Daventry  grinned  at  the  ambiguity. 

The  vicar  was  puzzled.  "  Your  friend  ...  ?  " 
he  suggested,  glancing  at  Ward.  "  I  seem  to  recall 
his  features  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  ." 

"  You  have  met  Lord  Daventry  before,  Mr. 
Thorpe,"  Ward  said.  "  Surely  you  remember 
him?  " 

The  vicar  smiled.  "  Of  course.  Of  course.  How 
do  you  do,  sir?  I  am  glad  to  renew  our  ac- 
quaintance." 

"  Really,  Thorpe,  you  make  me  feel  young," 
Lord  Daventry  said.  "  I  still  remember  myself 
with  perfect  clearness,  even  after  the  lapse  of  so 
many  years.  Yet  you  forget  me  in  a  few  months." 

"  I  have  much  to  think  of,"  the  patriarch  ex- 
plained. "  Much  to  think  of.  You  will  excuse 
me.  But  I  grow  forgetful,  I  know.  Strangely 
forgetful."  He  gazed  placidly  through  the  grey- 
green  eyes  and  eagle  face.  "  I  should  surely  have 
remembered  your  pleasant  humour  and  kindly  in- 
terest in  the  affairs  of  my  parish.  You  have  come 
at  a  good  time,  Lord  Daventry.  A  good  time.  We 
have  a  little  gathering  in  a  few  days,  just  a  vil- 
lage function  —  in  connection  with  the  church,  of 
course;  a  quiet  tea,  with  plain,  wholesome  cake; 


ARCADIA  43 

an  evening  of  simple  and  innocent  merriment  — 
recitations,  songs,  and  some  excellent  instrumental 
music.  You  will  be  glad  to  be  with  us,  I  know; 
for  I  remember  now,  quite  clearly,  your  keen  in- 
terest in  human  nature,  of  all  grades;  and  there 
is  a  good  deal  of  human  nature  in  our  rather 
unlovely  neighbourhood:  yes,  a  good  deal  of  human 
nature." 

"  Arcadia,"  Ward  murmured. 

"  Raw,"  his  grandfather  returned,  almost  with- 
out separating  his  lips.  "  Very  raw." 

"  I  wonder,"  continued  the  vicar  pensively,  "  if 
I  could  count  upon  you  for  some  small  item  to 
enliven  our  evening  —  a  brief  address,  an  account 
of  a  few  of  your  varied  experiences  — ?  " 

"  I  fear,"  Lord  Daventry  observed,  "  that  they 
would  scarcely  be  appropriate  for  a  quiet  village 
function  —  in  connection  with  the  church.  I  would 
rather  not  be  a  performer,  Thorpe;  but  as  a  spec- 
tator, I  shall  enjoy  myself.  I  trust  you  will  open 
sufficient  windows  to  ensure  reasonable  ventilation. 
These  little  gatherings,  however  racy  of  the  soil,  have 
a  habit  of  being  scarcely  reminiscent  of  fresh  air." 

Ward  intervened,  touching  abruptly  a  tragic 
note.  "  Mr.  Thorpe,  I  want  you  to  go  over  to 
Clayfield  to  see  Mrs.  Harrington.  Her  boy  died 
this  morning,  and  she  needs  your  help." 

"  Dead?  "  said  the  vicar.  "  Walter  dead?  "  He 
stood  for  a  moment,  deliberating.  "  He  was  a 


44  ARCADIA 

bright,  brave  boy.  A  bright,  brave  boy.  Sad 
that  the  flowers  should  perish  before  the  withered 
leaves  .  .  .  Poor  woman !  I  will  certainly  go  to  her. 
I  will  go  at  once."  He  looked  at  Lord  Daventry, 
wanly.  "  You  and  I,  we  stay,"  he  said.  "  We  stay, 
with  our  sluggish  blood,  and  shrivelled  force,  and 
bitter  memories.  And  the  young  and  glad-hearted 
die.  The  loved,  the  promising,  are  taken;  the  use- 
less remain.  Strange.  Strange." 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  object  .to  being  classified  as 
useless,"  Lord  Daventry  observed.  "  A  mere  preju- 
dice on  my  part,  no  doubt:  but  I  cling  to  it.  No 
member  of  the  House  of  Lords  can  be  useless:  he 
is  always  invaluable  as  a  subject  for  political 
abuse."  He  surveyed  the  vicar  dispassionately. 
"  You  are  certainly  aging,  Thorpe.  You  are  los- 
ing your  sense  of  proportion.  I  should  not  be  at 
all  astonished  to  hear  before  long  that  you  had 
seceded  to  the  Catholics." 

The  vicar  stiffened.  "  I  cannot  very  well  secede 
to  a  Church  of  which  I  am  already  a  member,"  he 
said,  with  dignity.  "  Already  a  member.  Possibly 
you  refer  to  the  Italian  or  Roman  Church.  I  have 
noticed  that  confusion  still  exists  amongst  the  more 
ignorant  laity.  The  more  ignorant  laity.  I  will 
wish  you  good-morning."  He  bowed,  and  moved 
slowly  away. 

Ward  smiled.  "  He  scored  against  you  there," 
he  said  to  his  grandfather. 


ARCADIA  45 

The  old  man  did  not  seem  disturbed.  "  Cer- 
tainly," he  admitted.  "  '  Ignorant  laity  '  was  good. 
Thorpe  is  n't  so  harmless  as  he  looks." 

A  long  drive  ensued,  through  scattered  villages 
and  hamlets,  over  rough,  circuitous  roads.  The  air 
was  tainted  with  smoke  and  mist,  drifting  heavily 
from  the  collieries  and  ironworks  in  the  distance. 
Everywhere,  unloveliness  met  them.  Little  houses, 
cheap  and  new,  flaunted  their  ugliness  in  the  drab 
setting  of  older  buildings,  slovenly  or  decayed.  Yet 
the  shining  sun  lit  up  vistas  of  a  gayer  world  be- 
yond, of  smoother  roads,  hedged  fields,  and  infre- 
quent mansions  of  the  rich:  winding  avenues  could 
be  seen,  soft  lawns,  and  little  gleaming  lakes.  Here 
and  there  they  found  relics  of  the  fury  of  the 
storm:  a  fallen  tree,  tiles  blown  from  roofs,  timber 
ripped  from  the  rough  wooden  shelters  for  cattle. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  wild  night,"  the  old  man 
said,  gazing  at  a  chimneyless  cottage. 

"  Yes,"  Ward  said.     "  Very  wild." 

It  was  a  long  way  round:  every  patient  repre- 
sented, on  an  average,  about  two  miles.  Lord 
Daventry  took  a  keen  interest  in  each  visit;  went 
in  with  his  grandson;  conversed  with  the  humble. 
Several  times,  to  his  gratification,  he  was  remem- 
bered. He  was  gracious  on  these  occasions ;  ex- 
erted himself  to  please,  and  left  behind  an  impres- 
sion of  affability,  which  became  in  due  time  a  legend. 
But  on  the  way  back  he  scoffed  and  gibed  as  be- 


46  ARCADIA 

fore;  sneered  at  the  lowly  lives  of  these  out- 
worn toilers;  made  a  jest  of  their  patience  and 
necessities. 

As  they  swung  into  the  lane  that  led  directly 
home,  they  encountered  Alice  Heath,  returning  from 
Hanford.  She  smiled  shyly  as  Ward  saluted  her, 
Lord  Daventry  following  suit  punctiliously;  and 
passed  on. 

"  You  sometimes  wonder,"  Ward  said,  "  why  I 
have  chosen  this  environment,  and  remain  in  it. 
That  is  one  of  the  reasons." 

Lord  Daventry  was  slightly  ruffled.  "  I  trust," 
he  said,  "  that  you  are  not  contemplating  the  im- 
becility of  a  mesalliance?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  courage,  not  marriage,"  Ward 
said.  "  She  represents  the  quiet,  uncomplaining 
heroism  that  is  rather  prevalent  in  this  neighbour- 
hood. You  look  only  at  the  darkness.  To  me,  it 
is  transfigured  by  the  loveliness  of  some  of  the  lives 
that  it  has  moulded.  That  girl,  for  example,  with 
her  grave,  thin  face,  is  always  beautiful  in  my 
thoughts.  I  know  her  simplicity,  her  strength,  her 
will  to  do  what  is  right.  Fate  has  not  been  very 
kind  to  her.  The  only  gifts  she  has  known  have 
been  those  of  loneliness  and  poverty.  I  have  never 
heard  her  complain.  She  lives  with  her  sister  in 
a  little  cottage.  They  both  work  hard.  Day  fol- 
lows day.  Routine  repeats  itself.  They  become 
older.  Voila!" 


ARCADIA  47 

"  A  natural  process,"  Lord  Daventry  observed. 
"  Had  you  told  me  that  they  became  younger,  you 
would  have  interested  me.  I  begin  to  believe  that 
youth  is  really  the  wonderful  thing  that  poets  have 
proclaimed.  It  is  a  pity  that  one  cannot  be  young 
without  being  youthful.  If  one  could  only  com- 
mence again,  innocent  but  wise,  how  delightful 
would  be  the  pursuit  of  pleasure.  One  would  not 
repeat  the  mistake  of  squandering  that  innocence 
lavishly,  for  a  return  so  inadequate.  Every  frag- 
ment should  be  weighed,  and  sold  for  its  full  value. 
No  more  painted  roses,  artificial,  perfumeless;  no 
more  darkened  eyelashes,  rouged  cheeks,  vermilioned 
lips  and  meretricious  smiles;  no  more  madness  of 
craving  that  grovels  amongst  ashes,  while  love's 
white  flame  shines  ever  in  the  ewigkeit  of  passion, 
luring  and  eluding !  "  He  checked  himself.  "  I 
apologize  for  the  relapse,"  he  said.  "  It  was  not 
serious." 

They  drove  into  the  wide  yard.  It  was  already 
late  in  the  afternoon  and  the  mimicry  of  spring 
seemed  less  real  as  the  sunlight  faded.  The  soft- 
ness was  passing  from  the  air,  and  the  growing 
breeze,  no  longer  warmed,  struck  bleakly  in  their 
faces.  They  were  glad  to  get  indoors  to  the  cheer- 
ful fire  and  to  refresh  themselves  with  the  light 
lunch  that  Miss  Sands  had  prepared,  gauging  their 
return  precisely.  Lord  Daventry  complimented 
her,  and  at  once,  fearing  that  he  had  gone  too  far, 


48  ARCADIA 

neutralized  the  effect  with  a  polished  gibe.  The 
ordinary  routine  of  the  surgery  followed  for  the 
doctor :  Lord  Daventry  slept,  recruiting  energy  for 
a  new  campaign. 

The  curate  called  in  the  evening,  and  remained 
for  dinner.  The  Reverend  Cecil  Hubert  Morrison 
was  under  thirty;  slightly  built;  agile  and  springy 
in  his  movements ;  alert  mentally.  Ward  liked  him ; 
admired  his  genuineness;  trusted  the  promise  of 
his  clear  blue  eyes.  He  had  heard  him  preach; 
seen  him  in  the  pulpit,  swaying  simple  people  with 
simple  words  and  the  force  of  sincerity.  To  Lord 
Daventry  he  was  a  novelty,  imported  since  the 
previous  visit.  He  surveyed  him  with  the  air  of 
an  epicure  preparing  to  carve  a  new  trifle,  insub- 
stantial, yet  with  possibilities.  But  the  curate  was 
not  easily  carved.  He  had  the  resisting  power  of 
toughness.  Ward  enjoyed  the  contest. 

While  they  smoked  their  cigars,  the  old  man 
became  almost  genial.  He  suggested  parochial 
topics,  and  listened  with  interest.  His  manner  was 
soothing,  and  Morrison,  gratified,  chatted  at  ease, 
covering  a  wide  range.  When  he  rose  to  go,  Lord 
Daventry  thanked  him. 

"  I  now  comprehend  local  conditions,"  he  said. 
"  I  have  rarely  heard  scandal  so  delicately  and  yet 
so  exhaustively  treated.  Collating  your  informa- 
tion with  all  that  I  have  been  able  to  glean  during 
the  day,  I  think  I  can  resume  the  entertainment 


ARCADIA  49 

where  it  was  interrupted  by  the  conclusion  of  my 
last  visit.  It  is  delightful  to  feel  that  one  is  not 
an  outsider,  that  one  enjoys  a  peculiar  intimacy 
with  the  secret  history  of  these  primitive  people. 
I  shall  meet  many  of  them,  I  trust,  at  the  social 
gathering  which  is  to  take  place,  I  understand  from 
the  vicar,  in  a  few  days.  I  look  forward  to  a 
pleasant  evening." 

"  I  hope  the  pleasure  will  be  mutual,"  said  Mor- 
rison, drily.  He  turned  to  Ward.  "  By  the  way, 
old  man,  with  regard  to  the  Harringtons  —  sad, 
is  n't  it?  The  vicar  told  me  he  had  been  over  to 
Clayfield.  He  has  asked  me  to  make  arrangements 
for  the  funeral,  so  you  need  n't  worry  about  that. 
Old  Harrington,  he  tells  me,  was  like  a  man  in  a 
trance.  He  did  n't  go  to  the  ironworks  to-day. 
That  was  natural,  of  course.  But  he  has  n't  been 
for  several  days,  I  believe,  and  he  's  pretty  sure  to 
lose  his  job  unless  he  alters  altogether.  The  vicar 
says  he  was  n't  drunk,  though  he  'd  evidently  had 
a  bout  not  long  before.  But  he  seemed  dazed.  It 
makes  it  very  hard  for  Mrs.  Harrington.  She 
ought  n't  to  be  alone,  you  know.  It  is  n't  right." 

"  I  sent  a  wire  for  her  this  morning,  to  her  sister, 
asking  her  to  come,"  Ward  said.  "  I  think  she 
will,  if  her  disposition  is  at  all  like  Mrs.  Harring- 
ton's. I  made  the  telegram  as  clear  as  I  could,  and 
quite  urgent." 

"  You  think  of  everything,"  said  Morrison  grate- 


50  ARCADIA 

fully.  "Well,  I  must  be  off.  Good-night,  Lord 
Daventry.  If  there  is  any  additional  information 
that  I  can  dig  out  for  you,  don't  hesitate  to  let 
me  know." 

The  old  man  bowed  gravely.  "You  have  evi- 
dently a  great  career  before  you,  Mr.  Morrison. 
Do  not  sacrifice  it  by  allowing  yourself  to  become 
a  bishop  prematurely." 

Pondering  this  cryptic  utterance,  the  curate  went 
out  with  Ward.  As  he  descended  the  steps,  he 
chuckled.  The  sound  was  immediately  suppressed 
by  the  wind,  which  was  gustily  threatening  a  re- 
newal of  the  gale. 

Ward  returned  to  his  grandfather,  who  was  as 
tired  as  himself;  escorted  him  to  his  bedroom,  and 
committed  him  to  the  care  of  Philpotts,  whom  he 
had  brought  with  him.  Philpotts  was  privileged 
and  indispensable.  For  more  than  twenty  years 
Lord  Daventry  had  relied  upon  him:  no  one  but 
Philpotts  knew  how  much  of  the  old  man  was 
Daventry,  and  how  much  was  Philpotts.  Dis- 
creetly, Philpotts  put  the  blend  to  bed. 

Ward  went  to  his  own  room.  His  eyes  were 
heavy  with  arrears  of  sleep.  His  preparations, 
though  methodical  as  usual,  were  half  unconscious. 
The  rattling  of  the  windows,  the  noises  of  the 
gathering  storm,  seemed  to  carry  him  back  to  the 
conditions  of  the  preceding  night.  It  was  difficult 
to  realize  that  so  many  hours  had  passed:  rather 


ARCADIA  51 

had  time  swung  at  anchor,  freighted  with  dreams, 
through  the  ebb  and  flow  of  a  tide. 

The  pressure  on  his  head  crushed  him.  Frag- 
ments of  his  experiences  represented  themselves, 
disconnectedly:  the  ringing  of  a  bell;  an  eagle- 
faced  man,  wrinkled  and  old;  a  woman,  cold  and 
storm-swept,  quivering,  strange-eyed,  in  a  red  light. 
His  last  vague  thought  was  connected  with  Mrs. 
Harrington.  He  wondered  if  her  sister  resembled 
her. 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE  days  passed:  Ward  was  busy,  for  the 
changing  weather,  the  alternation  of  sun- 
shine and  extreme  cold,  manufactured  many 
patients.  He  was  glad  to  be  occupied  —  not  be- 
cause it  brought  him  profit:  there  was  little  to  be 
gleaned  in  that  barren  country;  but  because  his 
craving  for  action,  for  something  that  would  serve 
to  arrest  reverie  and  check  brooding,  was  satisfied 
fully.  He  liked  best  to  go  home  tired,  feeling  that 
he  had  helped,  though  scantily,  to  lessen  the  world's 
vast  total  of  pain:  it  was  good  to  get  into  bed 
with  heavy  eyes  that  only  an  effort  of  will  could 
keep  from  closing;  to  drift  superbly,  with  a  mo- 
mentary interval  of  imperfect  visions,  into  the  an- 
nihilation of  deep  sleep;  and  to  wake,  virile  and 
at  ease,  unclogged  by  the  aftermath  of  emotion. 

Lord  Daventry  inhabited  the  large  house  com- 
prehensively. It  had  seemed  rather  desolate  dur- 
ing the  winter :  there  were  many  vacant  rooms  — 
some  altogether  empty,  some  furnished  very  simply 
for  possible  visitors.  But  they  had  not  been  used 
during  Ward's  tenancy.  They  merely  added  to  the 
sense  of  loneliness.  It  is  strange  to  climb  the  stairs 


ARCADIA  53 

of  a  house  that  is  old  and  wind-shaken;  to  wander 
along  wide  landings,  where  many  eddying  currents 
meet  mysteriously;  and  to  know  that  in  seven 
rooms  are  not  seven  sleepers,  dreaming  or  dream- 
less; but  the  sounds  of  the  night,  and  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  and  such  memorials  as  the  dead  may 
leave.  For  the  influence  of  those  who  have  lived 
never  passes  wholly  from  the  places  that  they 
haunted,  though  they  haunt  them  no  more,  perhaps, 
with  the  taint  that  the  timorous  fear,  with  the 
sudden  glimmering  of  pallid  faces  and  the  flutter- 
ing of  cerecloths.  Yet,  where  that  old  man  wan- 
dered, keen-eyed  and  eagle-faced,  he  seemed  to 
sweep  away  all  ghostly  fancies.  The  fictions  of 
time  palsied  in  his  presence.  No  sanctity  of  dim 
shadows  could  arrest  his  gibes  or  moderate  the  high, 
peculiar  voice.  He  exorcised  the  spirit  of  the  past 
with  mocking  words  and  a  twitching  of  thin  lips : 
such  melancholy  as  may  linger  within  walls  that 
were  upstanding  in  other  centuries,  was  outmoded 
now.  Cynicism  pervaded  the  air.  The  house  reeked 
with  pungent  epigrams. 

The  night  of  the  little  social  gathering  arrived, 
clear  and  cold.  Lord  Daventry  had  looked  forward 
to  it  with  malicious  interest:  weary  of  the  poverty 
of  the  rich,  he  desired,  he  said,  to  examine  the 
treasures  of  the  poor.  Their  simple-heartedness 
and  natural  ways  would  invigorate  him.  He  was 
disgusted  with  the  shallowness  of  his  own  class, 


54  ARCADIA 

which  lived  habitually  on  the  surface  of  thought 
and  emotion,  and  refrained  from  delving  into  the 
crust.  But  these  toilers  worked  very  definitely 
under  the  ground.  They  would  provide  fuel  for 
the  fires  of  inspiration. 

He  stretched  out  a  lean,  white  hand  and  gazed 
at  it  meditatively.  "  I  can  remember,"  he  said, 
"  when  this  hand  would  tremble  as  it  clasped  frail 
fingers.  It  clasped  so  many  that  the  thrill  soon 
wore  away:  but  it  still  trembles.  Age  is  absurd 
in  its  mimicry  of  youth.  Cold  and  heat  can  both 
produce  quivering.  But  there  is  a  difference.  You, 
my  own  Saint  John,  have  probably  not  noticed  it. 
The  devil  is  scarcely  ingenious  enough  to  attract 
your  interest.  The  temptations  that  have  sufficed 
for  so  many  dear,  damned  souls,  are  flung  in  vain 
against  your  adamant  indifference.  It  is  a  wonder- 
ful thing  to  possess  your  acute  interest  in  women 
—  as  pathological  curiosities.  You  have  dissected 
the  sex  too  literally.  It  is  a  pity.  One  should 
always  leave  a  little  to  the  imagination.  Eh? 
Without  imagination,  liaisons  would  be  impossible. 
No  one  could  fall  in  love  with  reality.  That,  by 
the  way,  is  why  women  are  never  natural.  They 
disguise  themselves  by  appearing  charming." 

"  One  should  never  disregard  an  incognito,"  Ward 
said ;  and  continued :  "  I  have  told  Marple  to 
bring  the  car  round  in  half  an  hour.  He  will  drive 
you  to  Newchurch  with  Miss  Sands.  I  have  a 


ARCADIA  55 

maternity  case  at  Chayle,  so  I  may  not  see  you 
again  till  to-morrow.  I  shall  walk  over,  as  the  night 
is  so  fine.  I  hope  you  will  have  a  pleasant  time, 
and  not  be  too  bored  with  the  Arcadian  ways  of 
our  simple  people.  Be  kind  to  them,  for  they  are 
accustomed  only  to  the  irony  of  nature,  not  to  the 
cynicism  of  men.  Tell  the  vicar  I  am  sorry  to  be 
absent;  but  if  he  will  marry  his  parishioners  in 
May,  he  must  expect  to  be  reminded  of  it  in 
February." 

"  Convey  my  condolences  to  the  happy  parents," 
Lord  Daventry  said.  "  I  trust  the  reminder  will 
not  be  twins.  Thorpe  has  such  a  habit  of  repeat- 
ing himself  that  he  may  have  married  them  twice. 
Eh?  —  Well,  it  is  time  that  Philpotts  began  to  build 
me  up  for  the  ordeal  of  the  evening.  If  I  go  as 
a  lamb  to  the  slaughter,  I  may  as  well  be  appro- 
priately dressed." 

Lambly,  he  withdrew. 

He  was  ready  when  Marple  appeared  with  the 
car.  Rejecting  evening  dress,  as  incongruous  for 
a  village  function,  he  had  assumed  a  dark  grey 
suit.  A  white  and  purple  orchid,  fantastically 
moulded,  was  fixed  in  the  flower-sheath  contrived 
by  the  creator  of  the  immaculate  frock-coat.  He 
wore  grey  suede  gloves.  Miss  Sands,  uplifted  by 
rustling  silk,  had  been  waiting  complacently:  but 
Lord  Daventry's  arrival  at  once  depressed  her.  The 
old  man  carried  with  him  an  atmosphere  of  dis- 


56  ARCADIA 

tinction,  of  supremacy  —  the  supremacy  of  re- 
straint. His  hooked  nose  and  shrunken  cheeks  were 
noticeable,  but  not  obtrusive.  The  housekeeper 
sighed,  and  placed  caste  on  a  pedestal.  Philpotts, 
inured  to  caste,  placed  it,  as  represented  by  his 
master,  in  the  tonneau  of  the  car;  swathed  it  in 
rugs,  and  retired,  wordless,  as  Miss  Sands  had 
already  taken  her  seat. 

Marple  drove  them  skilfully  over  the  awkward 
road,  rutted  and  hard.  He  wore  a  black  overcoat, 
fitting  closely,  and  looked  very  unchauffeurish. 
Concealed  by  the  overcoat  was  a  black  suit,  with 
a  striped  tie,  black  and  white.  In  the  button-hole 
was  a  red  carnation.  He  wore  shining  patent  shoes, 
tight  to  the  limit  of  endurance.  For  he  also  was 
to  be  a  guest  at  the  little  social  gathering,  in  con- 
nection with  the  church.  His  gaze  searched  auto- 
matically the  successive  sections  of  the  road,  upon 
which  the  powerful  lamps  of  the  car  cast  their 
glare:  but  his  inward  vision  was  directed  to  the 
moonlit  night,  which  reflected,  like  a  vast  mirror, 
every  detail  of  a  conspicuous  figure,  clothed  in  a 
black  suit,  with  a  striped  tie,  black  and  white;  in 
the  button-hole,  a  red  carnation;  peeping  care- 
lessly from  the  breast  pocket,  an  expanse  of  hand- 
kerchief, snowy  white;  on  the  feet,  shining  patent 
shoes,  tight  and  distinguished.  He  absorbed  the  re- 
flection as  a  poet,  rapt,  segregated  from  trivialities, 
absorbs  beauty.  Insatiable,  he  continued  to  absorb. 


ARCADIA  57 

They  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  large  school- 
room that  had  been  transformed  into  a  hall  of  sub- 
dued splendour.  Balding,  churchwarden  and  mas- 
ter of  ceremonies,  escorted  Lord  Daventry  and 
Miss  Sands  to  the  far  end  of  the  room,  where  the 
vicar  welcomed  them.  Marple  drove  the  car  down 
to  the  inn,  placed  it  in  the  crude  garage,  and  re- 
turned on  foot.  Entering  unobtrusively,  he  lingered 
near  the  door,  while  his  eyes  methodically  sur- 
veyed the  assembly.  To  the  right,  midway,  he  per- 
ceived a  round  face,  colour  glowing  in  the  dimpled 
cheeks.  Touching  the  striped  tie  with  gentle  fingers, 
to  assure  himself  that  it  was  not  disarranged,  he 
drifted,  fortuitously,  to  the  right;  strolled,  non- 
chalantly, forward;  found  himself,  by  accident, 
midway;  surprised  at  an  astonishing  rencontre, 
murmured  her  name. 

The  feeding,  which  is  an  inseparable  feature  of 
such  meetings,  was  over:  the  sandwiches  and  cake 
had  disappeared,  melting  before  those  earnest  Ar- 
cadian appetites.  Tea  had  flowed,  very  literally  like 
water,  down  Arcadian  throats.  Now,  voluntary 
helpers  were  removing  the  crockery,  pushing  tables 
to  one  side,  rearranging  chairs.  The  musical  feast 
was  about  to  begin.  In  the  meantime,  conversa- 
tion, unrestrained,  flooded  the  room.  Lord  Dav- 
entry perceived  that  the  acoustic  properties  of  the 
building  were  excellent  —  an  advantage  somewhat 
rare  in  village  schools. 


58  ARCADIA 

The  vicar,  heavy  and  patriarchal,  watched  with 
gentle  eyes  over  his  flock.  The  curate,  Morrison, 
was  energetically  busy.  He  passed  to  and  fro, 
agile,  alert,  cheerful,  followed  by  smiles,  or  by  the 
half-wistful  gaze  of  some  of  the  girls. 

Lord  Daventry  surveyed  the  different  types  of 
faces  —  the  dull,  the  bright,  the  sad,  the  illumined. 
The  influence  of  heredity  and  circumstance  was 
written  plainly  in  the  imperfect  moulding  of  many 
features,  in  the  frequent  caricatures  of  the  normal 
figure:  pendent  under-lips,  sallow  faces,  corrugated 
brows  bore  witness  to  the  legacy  of  those  for  whom 
life  is  never  easy,  and  often  ominous.  Privation, 
patience,  long  endurance,  were  stamped  indelibly  on 
some:  on  others,  coarseness,  shallowness,  unruled 
lusts,  and  stunted  mental  growth.  Yet  not  all 
among  the  throng  were  harshly  marked:  there  were 
pleasant  faces,  serious  or  gay,  of  men  and  the  older 
women;  pretty  faces,  flushed  or  calm,  of  girls; 
provocative  or  restful  faces. 

Lord  Daventry  turned  toward  the  vicar.  "  The 
enigma  of  life,  Thorpe,"  he  observed,  "  is  an  amus- 
ing piece  of  bluff." 

The  vicar,  who  had  not  heard  him  distinctly, 
nodded.  "  Yes,  I  like  to  see  them  amused,"  he  said. 
"  I  like  to  see  them  amused.  Their  lives  are  some- 
what dreary,  you  know;  and  it  is  our  duty  to 
brighten  them  when  we  can.  We  are  having  two 
comic  songs,  and  a  very  funny  recitation,  Morrison 


ARCADIA  59 

tells  me.  A  very  funny  recitation.  I  wish  I  could 
persuade  you  to  contribute  to  our  programme.  My 
people  would  appreciate  it,  I  know.  They  have  a 
high  regard  for  you.  You  see,  they  admire  your 
grandson  greatly,  and  some  of  the  feeling  is  natur- 
ally reflected  upon  you,  as  a  member  of  the  family." 

"  It  is  a  source  of  great  pleasure  to  me,"  Lord 
Daventry  said,  "  to  bask  in  the  surplus  of  John's 
glory." 

"  I,  personally,  have  much  affection  for  Dr. 
Ward,"  the  vicar  continued.  "  Affection,  and  ad- 
miration. I  often  wonder  how  he  came  to  be  so 
simple,  so  strong,  so  lovable." 

"  Heredity,  my  dear  Thorpe,"  Lord  Daventry 
said  suavely.  "  He  owes  much  to  his  ancestors. 
Surely  you  have  observed  the  rather  striking  resem- 
blance between  John  and  myself?  " 

"  No,"  the  vicar  answered.  "  No.  I  do  not 
think  your  grandson  resembles  you  at  all." 

Lord  Daventry  chuckled;  then  suddenly  became 
grave.  "  He  does  resemble  me,  though,"  he  said, 
after  a  little  while.  "  More  than  you  imagine, 
Thorpe  —  or  he,  either.  We  Wards  are  all  alike 
at  heart  —  very  lovable."  He  laughed.  "  It 's  the 
taint  of  the  blood.  Dear  John  will  show  it  when 
some  dew-eyed  woman  drifts  into  his  life  and  wakens 
those  sleeping  whirlwinds  that  are  within  him." 
His  expression  changed:  he  gazed  moodily  at  the 
curate,  who,  on  the  temporary  platform  that  had 


60  ARCADIA 

been  erected,  announced  the  first  item  of  the  pro- 
gramme —  a  pianoforte  duet.  Songs  followed, 
comic  and  serious.  There  was  a  violin  solo,  by 
Miss  Alice  Heath.  Lord  Daventry  remembered  that 
he  had  passed  her  a  few  days  before,  when  driv- 
ing with  his  grandson :  he  recalled  the  brief  account 
of  her  history  and  watched  with  interest  the  quiet, 
firm  face  and  slender  figure.  He  was  astonished  at 
her  playing,  and  joined  in  the  applause  that  de- 
manded an  encore.  When  this  had  been  given, 
Morrison,  in  the  dialect  of  the  district,  told  some 
quaint  stories  that  he  had  gleaned  from  miners  and 
men  of  the  fields  —  tales  imbued  with  something  of 
the  spirit  of  folk-lore.  Though  he  chose  the  more 
humorous  legends,  they  were  not  free  from  the 
touch  of  tragedy:  the  life  of  the  underworld  was 
woven  into  them  —  the  world  of  toil,  dim  light,  and 
strange  forces,  with  death  lurking  always,  waiting 
for  a  slip,  for  a  careless  moment,  a  doomed  man. 
Lord  Daventry  comprehended  that  coal  had  its 
myths  and  its  mystery  —  myths  that  veiled  the 
record  of  far  happenings,  mystery  that  fore- 
shadowed the  hazards  of  the  future. 

A  brief  interval  followed,  before  the  second  part 
of  the  programme,  including  the  funny  recitation, 
was  commenced.  The  vicar  moved  about,  exchang- 
ing smiles  with  his  parishioners.  Morrison,  Lord 
Daventry  noticed,  was  devoting  himself  blithely  to 
Alice  Heath.  Miss  Sands  conversed  with  Miss 


ARCADIA  61 

Balding,  the  churchwarden's  sister:  their  silk 
dresses  had  inevitably  converged,  and  met.  Bald- 
ing himself,  rotund  and  red,  approached  his  dis- 
tinguished visitor;  hoped  that  he  was  enjoying 
himself;  wondered,  diffidently,  if  his  lordship  could 
not  see  his  way  to  contribute  to  the  programme. 
A  few  words,  on  any  topic,  would  be  considered 
memorable.  Lord  Daventry  hesitated,  and  then, 
moved  by  curiosity  as  to  what  he  would  say,  and 
the  nature  of  its  reception  by  these  simple  people, 
consented  to  address  them:  he  would  consider  the 
actual  topic  during  the  humorous  recitation.  Bald- 
ing, gratified,  hastened  to  spread  the  important 
tidings.  Faces  were  turned  toward  the  eminent 
peer;  wandered  over  his  eagle  face;  rested,  won- 
deringly,  upon  his  hooked  nose ;  withdrew,  furtively. 

The  recitation  began.  While  it  was  proceeding, 
the  old  man  meditated.  He  had  committed  himself 
to  some  kind  of  address.  What  should  be  the  sub- 
ject? Turning  to  see  who  was  taking  possession 
of  the  chair  next  to  his  own,  he  was  astonished  to 
encounter  Ward's  serene  smile. 

"  Remarkable  celerity,"  he  murmured.  "  I  trust 
the  twins  are  well?" 

Ward  answered  in  a  low  tone.  "  A  little  con- 
fusion of  dates,  due  to  inexperience.  I  discovered 
that  the  event  should  not  be  expected  for  another 
week.  One  sometimes  meets  with  these  cases  of  pre- 
mature enthusiasm." 


62  ARCADIA 

Lord  Daventry  shrugged  his  shoulders;  then 
asked  for  advice.  "  I  have  promised  —  foolishly 
—  to  address  these  Arcadians  of  yours.  What 
shall  I  talk  to  them  about?  Diluted  politics?  The 
depression  of  trade?  The  duty  of  humility  amongst 
the  lower  classes?  Or  the  significance  of  marriage? 
Eh?  " 

Ward  reflected.  "  Oh,  tell  them  something  about 
your  last  visit  to  the  United  States,"  he  said. 
"  They  are  interested  in  America,  and  it 's  a  fairly 
safe  topic." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Who  is  this 
humorist?  He  has  a  pleasant  face." 

"  His  name  is  Poole,"  Ward  said.  "  He  is  em- 
ployed at  the  Chayle  colliery." 

The  recitation  flowed  on,  and  ceased.  During  the 
hand-clapping,  Morrison  came  to  them,  and  then 
conferred  with  the  vicar.  The  patriarch  rose,  and 
explained  that  Lord  Daventry,  whom  they  were  so 
glad  to  have  with  them  that  evening,  had  very 
kindly  consented  to  talk  to  them  informally  about 
the  United  States,  which  he  had  twice  visited.  They 
would  be  deeply  interested  to  hear  about  that  won- 
derful country,  with  which  they  had  so  many  ties 
of  blood  and  sentiment. 

Lord  Daventry  mounted  the  low  platform,  sur- 
veyed his  audience,  and  smiled  slightly. 

"  I  do  not  remember,"  he  said,  "  the  first  time 
that  I  went  to  America.  I  was  too  young,  fortu- 


ARCADIA  63 

nately,  to  retain  any  vivid  impressions,  though  I 
was  interviewed,  I  have  been  told,  by  seven  reporters, 
who  subsequently  claimed  that  I  had  inspired  a 
total  of  seven  newspaper  columns.  I  was  then  two 
years  old  —  an  age  which  could  not  possibly  inspire 
anything  but  disgust  in  the  mind  of  any  reasonable 
adult  .  .  .  the  word  *  reasonable,'  you  will  observe, 
obviously  excludes  all  women.  Of  my  second  visit, 
which  occurred  recently,  I  retain  equally  hazy  im- 
pressions. We  arrived  in  a  fog,  and  left  in  a  fog. 
It  was  very  gratifying  to  find  that  English  indus- 
tries had  so  wide  a  vogue." 

He  surveyed  his  audience  again,  with  leisurely 
inquisitiveness,  and  perceived  row  after  row  of  at- 
tentive but  perplexed  faces.  Encountering  his 
grandson's  glance,  he  interpreted  its  message  of 
subdued  irony.  Perfectly  composed,  he  intimated, 
by  an  almost  imperceptible  shrug  of  the  shoulders, 
that  he  realized  the  situation.  He  had  made  a  false 
start.  Adapting  himself  to  his  environment,  he 
began,  in  a  quiet,  conversational  manner,  to  give 
a  simple  account  of  the  most  obvious  features  of 
the  great  Republic  beyond  the  seas.  He  explained, 
tersely  but  lucidly,  the  principles  of  government 
and  the  growth  of  political  institutions;  described 
the  social  and  industrial  developments;  discussed 
the  conditions  of  immigration  and  the  prospects  of 
the  new  settler;  contrasted  the  opportunities  still 
offered  by  the  United  States  with  the  greater  Cana- 


64  ARCADIA 

dian  inducements;  and  pointed  out  the  difficulties 
inevitably  associated  with  the  rapid  expansion  of 
a  new  nation,  released  from  the  traditions  of  the 
old  world,  not  yet  quite  sure  of  its  own  ideals,  and 
compelled  to  absorb  yearly  vast  hordes  recruited 
from  almost  all  the  nations  of  the  earth.  Toward 
the  end,  he  relapsed  into  his  usual  caustic  style; 
sneered  at  the  enormous  skyscrapers  and  the  enor- 
mous fortunes  that  dominated  the  landscape  and 
the  land ;  flung  out  a  gibe  at  New  York  as  a  "  city 
of  ill-bred  aliens,  posing  as  Americans  without 
knowing  what  Americanism  means  " ;  scoffed  at  the 
"  parody  of  democracy  "  which  established  "  equal- 
ity as  a  polite  theory,  and  plutocracy  as  a  crude 
reality " ;  and  concluded  with  a  display  of  epi- 
grammatic fireworks.  His  lips  twitched  as  he 
looked  round  at  the  perplexed  faces.  "  Please  do 
not  take  too  seriously  anything  that  I  have  said. 
That  would  certainly  be  a  serious  mistake."  He 
bowed,  and  stepped  from  the  platform.  The  au- 
dience, relieved  from  strain,  began  to  applaud 
perfunctorily. 

Ward  was  amused.  "  I  don't  believe  he  knows 
whether  he  is  trying  to  be  cynical  or  critical,"  he 
whispered  to  Morrison.  "  I  suppose  the  habit  of 
not  saying  what  he  means  has  become  almost 
automatic." 

"  Yes ;  but  he 's  shrewd,"  Morrison  replied. 
"  He  knows  what  he 's  talking  about,  though  he 


ARCADIA  65 

is  n't  the  sort  of  man  who  talks  about  everything 
he  knows." 

A  little  more  vocal  and  instrumental  music,  and 
the  programme  was  concluded.  But  the  gathering 
was  not  dissolved.  The  intoxication  of  dancing 
remained. 

While  preparations  were  being  made,  Morrison 
spoke  to  Ward.  "  We  buried  Walter  Harrington 
on  Thursday,"  he  said. 

Ward  nodded.  "  I  know.  I  meant  to  come,  but 
could  n't." 

"  I  was  frightfully  sorry  for  Mrs.  Harrington," 
Morrison  went  on.  "  She  seemed  frozen.  Her  sis- 
ter was  with  her,  by  the  way;  so  your  telegram 
was  not  wasted.  They  are  very  much  alike,  but 
Lady  Winter  has  extraordinary  violet  eyes." 

"  That  is  unusual,"  Ward  said. 

Lord  Daventry  and  the  vicar  came  up. 

"  I  think  I  will  go  home  now,  Morrison,"  the 
vicar  said.  "  I  will  leave  these  dance-loving  people 
in  your  care." 

"  If  you  would  n't  mind  walking  down  to  Bald- 
ing's  place,"  Ward  remarked,  "  I  will  get  my  car 
and  drive  you  to  the  vicarage.  It  won't  take  us 
a  minute  out  of  our  way.  Or  if  you  will  wait  here, 
I  will  fetch  the  car  up.  I  don't  care  to  send 
Marple:  he  looks  so  absurdly  happy  that  it  seems 
a  shame  not  to  let  him  stay  for  the  dancing." 

"  It  would  certainly  be  a  pity  to  disturb  him," 


66  ARCADIA 

Lord  Daventry  agreed.  "  Love's  young  dream  is 
sacred,  especially  when  it  is  deferred  to  middle  age. 
Let  us  walk  down  to  Balding's.  The  exercise  will 
do  us  good.  But  perhaps  Miss  Sands,"  he  added, 
glancing  at  the  housekeeper,  "  would  prefer  to  stay 
for  a  little  voluptuous  dancing?  If  I  were  not 
quite  so  old  as  I  appear  to  be  —  in  spite  of  Phil- 
potts'  admirable  work  —  I  should  myself  enjoy  the 
dangerous  delights  of  a  waltz  with  such  a  charm- 
ing partner,  for  example,  as  Miss  Alice  Heath  "  — 
he  glanced  at  the  curate  — "  or  the  very  pretty 
young  lady  with  whom,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  our 
humorous  friend  —  Mr.  Poole,  is  it  not  ?  —  is  rather 
epris." 

Ward  laughed.  "  That  is  Lydia  Heath,"  he  said ; 
"  Alice's  sister.  The  family  seems  to  have  attracted 
your  attention." 

"  It  is  evidently  a  very  attractive  family,"  Lord 
Daventry  rejoined,  drily. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  vicar.  "  Yes.  They  are  good 
girls." 

Miss  Sands  having  intimated  that  she  had  at- 
tained years  of  discretion  and  did  not  desire  to 
dance,  they  went  out  together,  the  vicar  and  Ward 
nodding  cheerful  adieux  to  their  friends.  When 
they  had  passed  through  the  door,  the  fresh  air 
struck  them  coldly.  They  walked  briskly  across 
the  road,  and  then  through  the  shadows  to  the 
inn. 


ARCADIA  67 

The  wide  rambling  street  was  almost  deserted. 
A  dog,  scavenging  in  the  gutter,  slouched  away  as 
they  passed.  The  only  light  was  that  of  the 
houses,  dim  and  infrequent.  Thirty  yards  from  the 
inn,  however,  two  roads  converged  and  a  primitive 
lamp-post  illuminated  a  small  circle.  As  they  came 
near,  Ward  noticed  a  woman,  walking  unsteadily. 
Over  her  shoulders  and  head  was  an  old  shawl. 
The  vicar  also  saw  her,  and  hesitated. 

"  Poor  thing,"  he  said.  "  Poor  thing.  I  really 
ought  to  speak  to  her." 

He  turned  aside.  The  woman  stopped  as  he 
reached  her,  and  gazed  into  his  face;  then  laughed, 
wildly  and  horribly. 

"You!"  she  cried.  "You!  Christ  A'mighty! 
D'ye  want  to  preach  to  me?  You!" 

"  Yes,  Nancy ;  I,"  the  vicar  said  sadly.  "  Why 
won't  you  let  me  help  you  to  make  an  effort  to 
lift  yourself  from  this  degradation  and  sin? " 

"  Sin !  "  she  cried,  and  began  to  curse  him,  foully. 
The  vicar  bowed  his  head,  as  men  do  when  they 
face  a  storm.  Ward,  who  had  come  to  them  at  the 
sound  of  the  woman's  voice,  could  see  that  he  was 
praying. 

"  For  shame,  Nancy !  "  the  doctor  said.  "  You 
are  cold  and  tired:  why  don't  you  go  home,  like 
a  sensible  girl,  and  get  to  bed?  " 

The  woman  looked  at  him,  and  laughed.  "  Sen- 
sible !  "  she  repeated.  "  Sensible !  Never  mind. 


68  ARCADIA 

I  '11  go.  I  know  I  'm  drunk.  I  'm  always  drunk, 
glory  be.  Good-night,  doctor  dear." 

She  turned  away,  and  left  them,  beginning  to 
sing  after  she  had  taken  a  few  unsure  steps.  Her 
quivering  voice  rose  and  fell,  like  the  audible  shud- 
dering of  a  lost  soul. 

"  The  wages  of  sin,"  said  the  vicar.  "  The  wages 
of  sin.  And  she  was  such  a  bonny  lass  in  the  years 
gone  by.  Such  a  bonny  lass.  And  now,  a  drunkard, 
and  worse  than  a  drunkard:  a  shamed  woman,  un- 
ashamed. And  what  shall  be  done  to  the  man  who 
brought  this  to  pass?  What  shall  be  done  to  him, 
and  to  his  kind?  Surely  they  shall  go  into  the 
hell  that  they  have  purchased.  Verily,  verily,  I 
say  unto  you,  they  shall  by  no  means  come  out 
thence  till  they  have  paid  the  uttermost  farthing." 

He  stood  as  if  unconscious  of  Ward's  presence. 

"  Come,"  said  Ward  quietly.  "  The  others  are 
waiting." 

"  The  uttermost  farthing,"  the  vicar  repeated. 

Ward  took  his  arm.  They  rejoined  the  others, 
and  went  on  to  the  inn. 

As  they  drove  back  past  the  lit  schoolroom,  they 
could  hear  the  piano  merrily  urging  on  the  dancers. 
Afterwards,  it  seemed  very  quiet  in  the  lane.  The 
moon,  which  had  shone  so  clearly  when  they  came, 
was  veiled  with  invisible  mist. 

They  left  the  vicar  at  his  gate,  said  good-night, 
and  then  went  home  in  silence. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE  pursuit  of  pleasure  is  an  arduous  folly, 
even  for  the  young,  in  whom  folly  seems  an 
inspiration.  Idealizing  the  unknown,  and 
reverencing  the  untested,  they  carry  their  sim- 
plicity as  a  halo  and  look  with  bright  eyes  for 
cleanness  where  later  they  shall  discover  only  the 
carrion  of  dead  and  decaying  illusions.  But  the 
wanderlust  of  their  race  devours  them:  urged  im- 
periously, they  must  traverse  the  seven  seas  of  pas- 
sion and  make  pilgrimage  through  the  separate 
continents;  they  shall  stand  with  throngs  before 
shrines,  or  alone  with  vultures  in  the  desert.  One, 
perhaps,  may  climb  a  peak  of  high  Andes  or  Hima- 
layas, and  see,  while  the  thin  air  stabs  the  blood, 
Heaven  nearer,  yet  still  sufficiently  aloof.  The  re- 
turn is  tedious,  the  way  littered  with  little  ironies 
or  blocked  with  ruins  of  noble  endeavours.  When 
it  has  been  achieved,  routine,  lawful  and  common- 
place, waits  for  resumption :  but  youth  is  irrecover- 
able. Yet,  satiate  only  with  disappointment,  avid 
for  the  realization  of  mocked  dreams,  the  old  some- 
times mimic  the  outmoded  self. 


70  ARCADIA 

Lord  Daventry  was  irritable  at  breakfast.  "  I 
don't  know  why  I  went  to  your  idiotic  meeting," 
he  said.  "  Or  rather,  I  know  perfectly  well  why 
I  went,  but  I  don't  know  why  I  could  be  so 
absurd,  at  my  age.  I  suppose  one  is  never  too 
old  to  be  childish.  By  the  way,  if  this  curious 
concoction  were  accused  of  being  coffee,  it  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  establishing  an  alibi.  And 
I  would  recommend  you  to  discharge  your  hens: 
they  are  evidently  too  leisurely  and  behind  the 
times.  An  egg  is  not  of  much  use  unless  it  is 
up-to-date." 

"  A  hen  will  hatch  duck-eggs,"  Ward  said  drily, 
"  but  as  a  rule  it  does  not,  I  believe,  lay  them. 
The  egg  at  which  you  are  now  frowning  happens 
to  be  a  duck-egg,  placed  on  the  table  for  my  own 
nourishment.  I  wondered  why  you  had  appropri- 
ated it.  Even  without  expert  training,  it  is  readily 
distinguishable  from  the  ordinary  egg  of  the  ordi- 
nary hen." 

"  Especially  in  flavour,"  the  old  man  snapped. 
"  It  is  positively  indelicate.  Perhaps  that  is  why 
it  appeals  to  you."  Forgetfully,  he  sipped  the 
coffee  that  he  had  criticised.  "  I  am  disappointed," 
he  resumed.  "  I  went  to  your  Arcadian  gathering 
for  a  soothing  change.  I  hoped  to  secure  a  little 
restful  pleasure.  Instead,  I  saw  a  lot  of  uninter- 
esting people  making  uninteresting  fools  of  them- 
selves, and  I  must  needs,  forsooth,  behave  like  the 


ARCADIA  71 

greatest  fool  of  all  by  descending  to  their  level 
and  playing  the  buffoon." 

"  I  perceive  you  are  troubled,"  Ward  said,  "  by 
the  idea  that  they  did  not  appreciate  your  —  hu- 
mour." He  took  another  piece  of  toast.  "  You 
are  quite  right.  They  did  n't." 

"  I  presume  that  in  this  chosen  and  very  grimy 
country  a  jest  has  to  be  translated  into  mud  be- 
fore it  is  appreciated,"  the  old  man  rejoined.  "  But 
I  am  not  worried  by  the  inability  of  your  friends 
to  understand  me.  They  are  not  the  only  people 
who  have  failed  in  that  simple  undertaking.  I  am 
not  worried  at  all.  I  am  merely  disappointed.  I 
am  disappointed  especially  with  Thorpe.  I  imag- 
ined that  that  venerable  patriarch  ruled  his  flock 
benignly,  if  a  trifle  heavily.  Yet  consider  the  scene 
with  that  atrocious  woman  who  railed  at  him,  and 
cursed  him.  What  deplorable  iniquity  has  passed 
between  them,  that  such  a  betise  could  be  possible? 
Bah!  one  loses  faith  even  in  those  whom  one  im- 
agines to  be  too  insipid  to  be  wicked.  Eh?  Your 
Arcadia  is  but  a  sordid  deception,  your  venerable 
vicar  a  disgusting  fraud." 

"  I  will  explain  the  incident  which  is  worrying 
you,"  Ward  said  coldly. 

Miss  Sands  came  into  the  room.  She  glanced  at 
Lord  Daventry,  and,  intimidated  by  his  severe  as- 
pect, crossed,  with  a  deprecating  air,  to  Ward. 

"  A  letter  from  the  vicar,"  she  explained.     "  It 


72  ARCADIA 

has  just  come.  I  thought  you  would  like  to  have 
it  at  once,  as  it  may  be  important." 

Ward  took  the  letter.     "  Thank  you." 

Miss  Sands  withdrew,  acutely  conscious  that  the 
old  man  was  watching  her,  ferociously. 

"  You  will  excuse  me?  "  Ward  asked,  opening  the 
letter.  He  read  it  carefully,  then  placed  it  on  the 
table. 

"  The  vicar  tells  me,"  he  said,  "  that  he  has  just 
heard  from  his  son,  in  Colorado." 

"  Thorpe  has  taken  the  trouble  to  write  to  you 
about  such  a  detail  as  that?  "  Lord  Daventry  en- 
quired, incredulously. 

Ward  nodded.  "  It  is  seven  years  since  Harold 
Thorpe  left  England.  This  is  the  first  letter  that 
he  has  written  to  his  father  during  the  last  five  of 
them.  It  is  scarcely  a  detail,  you  perceive.  It  is 
an  event.  The  vicar  did  not  even  know  where  his 
son  was,  or  whether  he  had  gone  under  altogether. 
He  made  rather  a  mess  of  things  here,  you  know, 
and  it  did  n't  seem  likely  that  he  would  make  a 
brilliant  success  of  anything  anywhere.  Yet  he  's 
managed  to  do  pretty  well.  He 's  struck  gold- 
mines —  " 

"  A  very  sensible  proceeding,"  Lord  Daven- 
try observed.  "  I  begin  to  respect  Mr.  Harold 
Thorpe." 

Ward  continued.  "  He  intimates  that  he  is  com- 
ing home  soon  to  try  the  role  of  a  millionaire." 


ARCADIA  73 

"  I  once  met  in  America  —  in  New  York  — " 
Lord  Daventry  said,  "  a  man  who  had  struck  gold- 
mines —  in  Colorado  also,  I  believe.  He  seemed 
very  prosperous.  Millionaires  frequently  do.  But 
he  had  his  little  worries.  He  had  been  foolish 
enough  to  marry  —  not  wisely,  but  too  well.  His 
wife  possessed  everything  that  a  man  desires  in  a 
woman  —  except  womanliness.  In  all  other  re- 
spects, she  was  charming.  Very  charming.  She 
certainly  had  unusual  beauty  and  distinction." 

"  He  told  you  so  ? "  Ward  asked,  raising  his 
eyebrows. 

"  I  told  myself  so,"  Lord  Daventry  replied. 
"  Quite  fortuitously,  I  saw  her.  She  was  a  remark- 
able woman,  peculiarly  alluring."  He  became  re- 
flective. "  I  remember  her  very  well,  though  I  saw 
her  once  only.  She  impressed  me  as  a  most  credit- 
able modern  version  of  Cleopatra.  I  have  often 
regretted  that  Cleopatra  herself  flourished  some- 
what prematurely.  I  have  missed  the  crowded  hour 
of  glorious  life  that  she  adopted  as  her  specialty 
and  brought  to  such  a  state  of  seductive  perfec- 
tion. Women  —  bah !  they  are  merely  the  counters 
with  which  men  play  the  game  of  love.  Cleopatra 
was  not  a  woman.  She  was  sex  incarnate,  tempta- 
tion made  tangible.  Even  your  saintship  would 
have  been  influenced  by  those  slumbrous  eyes,  illimit- 
able wells,  flooded  with  the  distilled  dew  of  pas- 
sion." His  own  grey-green  eyes  seemed  to  darken 


74  ARCADIA 

and  glow.  Suddenly  he  laughed,  thinly.  "  Quite 
a  pretty  metaphor,"  he  said. 

"  It  seemed  so  to  me,"  Ward  agreed  drily. 

"  Shall  we  return  to  our  original  discussion?  " 
Lord  Daventry  suggested.  "  You  were  going  to 
explain  to  me  the  peculiar  relations  between  Nancy, 
the  inebriate,  and  Thorpe,  the  invertebrate." 

"  Curiously,"  Ward  said,  "  this  letter  has  some 
connection  with  the  subject.  You  know  so  much 
about  our  little  affairs,  and  imagine  so  much  more, 
that  I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  truth  and  prevent 
you  from  guessing  uncharitably.  It  is  not  the 
vicar  who  is  to  blame,  but  the  man  who  seems  to 
have  become  a  millionaire  —  Harold  Thorpe." 

"  A  case  of  the  sins  of  the  sons  being  visited  on 
the  fathers  ?  "  Lord  Daventry  interposed.  "  Harold 
has  eaten  the  grapes,  and  the  vicar's  teeth  are  set 
on  edge.  Eh?  " 

"  Yes.  Harold  stayed  at  the  vicarage  for  some 
months  before  he  went  to  America.  He  was  at  a 
loose  end.  He  M  lost  his  position  in  the  North 
as  a  mining  engineer,  —  drink,  I  think,  —  so  he 
hung  round  here  till  something  turned  up." 

"And  the  first  something  was  Nancy?"  the  old 
man  suggested. 

"  She  was  a  pretty  girl  then,"  Ward  said. 
"  Simple  and  affectionate,  but  with  an  inherited 
tendency,  I  believe,  to  be  too  easily  influenced  by 
the  pleasure  of  the  moment.  We  are  beginning  to 


ARCADIA  75 

understand  heredity  better  than  we  did  a  few  years 
ago,  but  it  still  counts.  We  don't  say  that  a 
man  was  born  a  drunkard,  or  a  woman  a  wanton, 
because  drunkenness  or  wantonness  appeared  to 
be  a  family  heirloom.  We  merely  say  that  they 
were  born  with  certain  physiological  and  psychical 
dispositions,  which  may  lead  to  regrettable  de- 
velopments." He  laughed.  "  The  difference  is 
valuable  in  theory,  but  not  very  noticeable  in 
practice.  It  simply  means  that  a  man's  grand- 
father may  be  quite  as  important  as  his  father." 

"  True,"  Lord  Daventry  observed.  "  I  sometimes 
realize  the  responsibility  quite  acutely.  What,  I 
ask  myself,  have  I  handed  down  to  you?  Faith, 
hope,  charity,  of  course.  I  am  afraid  I  am  un- 
doubtedly blamable  for  your  angelic  disposition. 
But  what  else  have  I  passed  on  to  you?  What 
lurks  beneath  that  marble  surface  of  restraint  and 
orderly  habit?  Eh?  I  sometimes  wonder,  John. 
Do  fires  glow  within  the  walls  of  ice?  Does  the 
heart  throb,  the  brain  dream?  Even  a  small  folly 
would  relieve  my  anxiety;  for  if  you  are  not  a 
miserable  sinner,  as  the  family  tradition  demands, 
surely  my  grey  hairs  shall  go  down  in  sorrow  to 
the  grave.  I  am  old  now,  and  the  memory  of  my 
early  vices  will  not  support  unassisted  the  repu- 
tation of  our  house.  Your  brother  George  "  —  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  —  "  does  his  best,  but  he  is 
a  mere  fool.  The  trivialities  of  a  conventional  idiot 


76  ARCADIA 

are  painful.  I  relied  upon  you  to  bring  us  into 
notoriety  with  some  really  illustrious  esclandre." 
There  was  mockery  in  his  voice,  but  not  in  the  eyes, 
which  seemed  to  probe  for  some  hidden  wound, 
that  might  fester  if  ignored. 

Ward  resumed  calmly.  "  Harold  Thorpe  met 
Nancy.  The  girl  fell  in  love  with  him.  He  was  a 
big,  burly  man,  with  a  pleasant  face  and  blue  eyes 

—  not  wilfully  a  cad,  but  careless.     He  had  noth- 
ing to  do,  and  plenty  of  time  to  do  it  in.     Nancy 
was   certainly   very   pretty   and   attractive.      They 
met  frequently.     Nobody  knew  about  it  at  the  time, 
but,   of  course,  everybody   did   afterwards.      Well, 
Thorpe   went   away.      A   few   months   later,   there 
was  a  baby.     It  died  within  a  week.     Nancy  altered 
terribly,  poor   girl.      She  did  n't  leave   the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  would  n't  let  the  vicar  or  anybody 
else  help  her.     But  she  just  went  to  the  bad.     She 
continued  to  live  with  her  father:    I  dare  say  he 
gave   her  a  rough   time,   but   he   did  n't   turn   her 
out.     He  was  hurt  at  the  ironworks  two  years  ago 

—  frightfully  hurt.    You  've  never  seen  a  man  with 
the  flesh   ripped   off  by  molten   metal,  have   you? 
Well,  he  died.    The  company  offered  to  pay  Nancy 
five  shillings  a  week  if  she  did  n't  bring  an  action 
for  compensation.     She  lives  on  that,  and  what  she 
gets  —  in  other  ways.     A  sad  life.      Nobody  has 
any  influence  over  her.     It  has  been  a  sorry  busi- 
ness for  the  vicar.     He  feels  that  he  is  responsible 


ARCADIA  77 

for  the  tragedy,  somehow;  that  he  should  have 
been  able  to  prevent  his  own  son  from  bringing 
such  unhappiness  into  the  parish.  He  has  brooded 
over  it  ever  since.  Heaven  knows  how  often  and 
with  what  patience  he  has  tried  to  help  Nancy,  and 
bring  her  back  to  some  conception  of  self-respect. 
She  merely  reviles  him,  brutally,  hideously.  Yet 
he  even  wanted  her  to  live  at  the  vicarage,  as  his 
daughter,  his  son's  wife.  That 's  all.  I  thought 
it  was  better  for  you  to  know  the  truth." 

Lord  Daventry  nodded.  "  I  suppose  it  was 
rather  fine  for  Thorpe  to  wish  the  girl  to  live  with 
him  as  his  daughter.  But  he  would  have  needed 
all  his  Christian  fortitude  if  she  'd  accepted.  Eh? 
No  two  things  in  the  universe  are  so  widely  and 
hopelessly  separated  as  two  human  beings,  of  whom 
one  has  breeding,  and  the  other  has  n't.  Whatever 
you  do,  John,  avoid  the  Nancy  type,  especially  at 
the  most  alluring  stage  of  prettiness  and  simplicity. 
Only  a  lady  knows  how  to  be  kissed.  The  embraces 
of  mere  females  are  Dead  Sea  fruit:  you  haven't 
even  the  pleasure  of  enjoying  them  before  you  pay 
for  them.  Weariness,  John:  unutterable  weariness." 

"  Do  you  know  anything,"  Ward  asked  abruptly, 
"of  Lady  Winter?"  Oddly,  his  grandfather's  re- 
marks had  caused  him  to  think  of  her. 

"  Lady  Winter?  Yes,  I  have  heard  of  her.  Kent 
family,  I  believe:  good  blood,  but  small  income. 
Married  a  City  man  —  one  of  those  fellows  who  get 


78  ARCADIA 

knighted  for  being  in  the  way  at  a  royal  function; 
poor  blood,  but  large  income.  He  died  some  time 
ago.  Widow  wanders.  Very  attractive,  it  is  said, 
but  manages  her  own  affairs  and  does  n't  advertise. 
Why  do  you  ask?  Eh?  " 

"  She  is  staying  down  here  with  her  sister,"  Ward 
answered.  "  I  have  not  seen  her.  I  was  merely 
curious." 

Lord  Daventry  was  interested.  "  Her  sister  has 
a  place  here?  "  he  asked. 

Ward  laughed.  "  Not  a  large  place.  Her  hus- 
band is  employed  at  the  ironworks,  and  they  live 
economically.  Mrs.  Harrington's  boy  died  a  few 
days  ago.  You  remember  calling  at  the  vicarage 
with  me  and  asking  the  vicar  to  see  her?  Lady 
Winter  has  come  down  for  a  little  while  to  cheer 
her  up." 

"  Odd  how  families  drift  about  and  change  their 
status,"  the  old  man  said.  "  It  would  be  interest- 
ing to  know  why  Mrs.  Harrington  married  an  iron- 
works' employee.  Her  previous  experience  of  a 
small  income  should  have  caused  her  to  shun  a 
marriage  of  inconvenience.  Eh?  After  a  few  years, 
rigid  economy  palls,  even  if  the  husband  does  n't. 
Love  and  illusions  in  a  cottage  are  very  charming, 
but  disillusionment  can  only  be  mitigated  by  a 
palace.  The  daily,  unavoidable  intimacy  of  the 
poor  is  immoral.  It  ought  to  be  a  criminal  offence 
for  married  people  to  see  each  other  more  fre- 


ARCADIA  79 

quently  than  once  a  week.  Of  course,  they  really 
should  not  live  in  the  same  county.  Distance  is 
the  proper  basis  of  all  close  affection.  How  can 
two  people  respect  each  other,  or  themselves,  when 
they  share  three  meals  a  day  and  have  only  one 
bathroom?  It  is  impossible."  He  rose.  "I  do 
not  even  respect  Philpotts,  though  he  is  discreet. 
I  know  that  he  knows  me  too  well :  he  is  much  more 
intimate  with  me  than  I  am  with  myself.  He  does 
not  respect  me.  He  knows  that  he  has  become 
indispensable.  I  shall  therefore  be  compelled  to 
part  with  him.  Yet  I  dread  that  separation.  It 
will  have  the  pangs,  without  the  eclat,  of  a  divorce. 
Besides,  it  is  becoming  fashionable  to  avoid  divorces 
now.  They  have  been  so  overdone  by  the  vulgar 
that  we  can  scarcely  countenance  them  any  longer. 
That  is  one  thing  for  which  I  praise  the  press. 
In  its  efforts  to  pander  to  the  lowest  classes  of 
the  community,  it  requires  so  many  prurient  de- 
tails that  Society  cannot  possibly  supply  the  de- 
mand. The  mere  rich  have  therefore  crowded  in, 
without  discretion  or  distinction.  Obviously,  we 
cannot  remain  in  such  a  gallery.  We  withdraw." 

"  My  cue,"  Ward  said,  touching  the  bell.  "  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  not  see  you  again  till  dinner.  If 
you  feel  any  craving  for  a  quiet  chat  during  the 
afternoon,  don't  hesitate  to  use  Miss  Sands.  She 
is  an  admirable  and  intelligent  listener." 

Lord  Daventry  watched  him  as  he  went  out,  ob- 


80  ARCADIA 

serving  the  easy  movement,  the  poise  of  the  head, 
the  impression  of  resourcefulness. 

"  A  man's  grandfather  may  be  quite  as  impor- 
tant as  his  father,"  he  murmured.  "  Heaven  help 
you,  dear  Saint  John,  when  you  begin  to  realize 
precisely  how  much  you  owe  to  your  own  affection- 
ate grandfather." 

Miss  Sands,  entering  to  remove  the  breakfast 
things,  encountered  a  peculiarly  savage  glare,  which 
distressed  her. 


CHAPTER    IX 

IN  the  comedy  of  life  there  is  neither  ill  nor  bad 
luck,  but  an  exact  adjustment  of  conditions. 
Midway  through  a  sordid  career,  or  on  the 
threshold  of  a  dark  hovel  of  the  dead  —  for  even 
the  grave  takes  rank  from  its  inhabitant  —  the 
whiner  may  plead  that  fortune  never  flung  to  him 
the  chances  of  a  Carnegie  or  a  Rockefeller.  The 
reply  is  absolute:  he  lies,  wilfully  or  witlessly.  No 
jest  of  a  lottery  upbuilt  those  somewhat  criticised 
philanthropists:  they  stand  on  such  pedestals  as 
their  own  hands  raised.  They  fashioned  wealth,  not 
because  opportunity  came  to  them,  but  because  they 
continued  seeking  till  the  opportunity  was  found. 
What  they  have,  they  gained  because  of  what  they 
are:  it  is  their  own,  inwoven  with  their  natures. 
But  their  happiness  is  moulded  to  an  unvarying 
scale.  Envy  no  man  —  nay,  not  even  in  his  death. 
Do  the  wicked  flourish  like  the  green  bay-tree?  It 
is  very  just.  They  have  their  hour:  and  there  is 
another  still  to  come.  The  Mills  of  God  have  been 
grinding  through  the  ages,  delicately,  precisely ;  and 
the  millers  are  expert.  The  worth  of  the  grain  that 
you  bring  them  shall  be  measured  to  you  exactly, 


82  ARCADIA 

in  tears  and  laughter,  joy  of  passion  and  bitterness 
of  aching  heart.  Duke  or  dustman,  courtesan  or 
countess,  you  shall  find  the  same  fixed  scale.  Can 
you  love  sublimely?  You  shall  prove  the  lower 
depths  of  hell.  Has  your  life  been  fair,  with  palaces 
and  purple,  soft  raiment  and  smooth  days?  Have 
a  care  for  the  nights,  when  the  voice  of  a  little  son 
is  stilled  or  the  eyes  of  a  wife  are  closed,  and  your 
heart  shrivels.  For  the  Mills  of  God  have  been 
grinding  through  the  aeons,  delicately,  precisely ;  and 
the  millers  are  expert.  They  can  number  your 
seconds,  and  the  seconds  of  your  fate;  and  if  a 
gap  shows  dimly,  they  can  close  it  while  you  loiter, 
dreaming  human  dreams. 

Ward  was  busy  in  the  surgery  till  noon.  Then, 
having  to  visit  a  patient  on  the  road  to  Mow  Hill, 
beyond  Clayfield,  he  determined  to  ride,  instead  of 
taking  the  car  or  trap.  He  went  to  the  stables 
and  told  Marple  to  saddle  Solon;  then,  returning, 
went  to  his  room  and  put  on  his  riding  breeches. 
As  he  was  starting,  Miss  Sands,  realizing  that  he 
would  not  be  back  for  lunch,  brought  him  a  glass 
of  milk,  in  which  an  egg  had  been  beaten  up.  Thus 
fortified,  he  departed,  without  any  reflection  upon 
the  numbering  of  seconds  and  the  remorseless  ad- 
vance of  destiny. 

It  was  a  clear  day,  cool  and  suave.  As  he  rode, 
he  considered  the  view,  that  his  grandfather  had  so 


ARCADIA  83 

often  criticised ;  and  it  seemed  good  to  him,  in  spite 
of  the  decay  and  neglect.  Coal  and  iron  were 
scarcely  congruous  with  the  nicer  amenities  of  life. 
The  perfume  of  roses  may  linger  in  summer  gar- 
dens, trimmed  and  kept  fair :  the  environment-  of 
work  is  harsher,  yet  distinctive.  The  smoke  rising 
in  the  distance,  the  disorder  and  bareness  around, 
carried  their  message  of  energy,  of  things  done  and 
in  the  doing.  A  workman  may  not  toil  in  white 
linen  and  clean  raiment:  he  must  wear  the  garb  of 
his  calling.  And  so  with  the  place  that  he  dwells 
in.  When  the  last  mine  is  exhausted,  and  the  fur- 
naces flare  no  more,  little  by  little  the  signs  of  the 
dead  past  shall  be  removed,  and  unloveliness  cease. 

Ward  felt  that  he  was  in  harmony  with  that  lit- 
tered land,  with  its  people  and  its  purpose.  It  was 
better  to  have  a  definite  place  and  a  definite  plan, 
than  to  drift  with  the  idlers :  better  to  be  identified 
with  a  community,  to  keep  one's  finger  on  the  pulse 
of  life,  to  share  the  common  sorrow  and  the  common 
gladness.  Here,  where  men  worked,  there  was  work 
for  men  to  do,  selflessly,  without  parade,  with  little 
thanks  and  scanty  record. 

He  rode  on,  at  an  easy  pace.  The  rutted  lanes 
had  become  friable  with  the  milder  weather  and  he 
left  behind  a  small  cloud  of  dust,  which  settled  in 
the  windless  air  as  swiftly  as  the  pounding  hoofs 
renewed  it.  He  took  the  shortest  turns  and  bypaths, 
occasionally  cantering  across  hedgeless  fields  or  bar- 


84  ARCADIA 

ren  wasteland:  but  it  was  two  hours  before  he 
reached  the  end  of  his  journey  and  pulled  up  at  a 
small  cottage,  old  and  solitary.  He  had  not  ex- 
pected to  be  delayed;  but  the  woman  whom  he  had 
come  to  see  was  fretful  and  in  pain.  He  stayed 
with  her  for  a  long  time,  indulgent  and  comforting; 
chatted  with  her;  read  to  her,  for  she  wished  it, 
from  the  Bible  — "  cutting  out  Morrison,"  as  he 
told  himself  with  a  smile.  When  he  came  away,  the 
afternoon  had  gone. 

He  rode  back.  The  stillness  of  the  air,  and  the 
slowly  decreasing  light,  had  their  effect  in  the  trend 
of  his  thoughts,  already  influenced  by  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  cottage  and  the  loneliness  of  the  woman 
he  had  visited.  Life  seemed  a  strange  invention, 
melancholy  at  the  best.  The  narrow  outlook  of  the 
multitude,  the  larger  freedom  of  the  few,  were  tragic 
with  pain,  with  unsatisfied  longings  or  futile  regrets. 
The  women  who  shall  never  be  mothers,  and  feel  the 
plucking  of  baby  fingers  at  their  breasts;  the 
mothers  who  have  no  profit  of  their  travail,  but 
lose  their  little  ones  and  rack  their  hearts,  —  what 
hosts  could  be  gathered  from  those  silent  ones,  who 
may  not  war  against  their  destiny? 

The  perpetual  pageant  of  life,  with  its  garish- 
ness  and  shadows,  moved  him  to  wonder:  he  felt 
the  craving  that  comes  to  all  who  see  the  tears 
in  mortal  things  —  the  desire  to  comprehend ;  to 
rip  the  veil  from  semblance  and  know  the  im- 


ARCADIA  85 

mutable  real.  The  days  passed,  and  the  nights :  but 
what  was  this  time  of  which  they  were  recording 
symbols?  Sorrow  passed,  and  joy:  but  what  was 
this  being  which  they  expressed,  lifting  it  from  the 
Nirvana  of  stupor,  visioning  sleep  with  dreams? 

Riding  across  the  fields,  he  came  within  view  of 
the  Harrington  house.  In  the  summer  it  looked 
attractive,  with  the  flowers  and  the  green  grass  in 
front,  the  little  orchard  behind,  and  the  creepers 
covering  the  walls.  Now,  small  and  bare,  it  seemed 
a  sinister  cage  for  a  woman  who  had  known  some- 
thing, at  least,  of  life's  graciousness  in  earlier  days. 
Ward  had  never  realized  personal  loss:  his  father 
had  died  when  he  was  too  young  to  be  perplexed 
with  mourning.  But  Mrs.  Harrington's  desolation 
irked  him.  What  freak  of  pitiless  fate  had  de- 
manded just  that  one  untested  life,  and  given  her 
henceforward  the  insistent  companionship  of  pain? 
He  checked  himself  in  his  thoughts:  with  the  pre- 
cision of  the  scientist,  he  objected  to  his  own  use  of 
the  idea  of  freakishness.  Rather  had  the  universe, 
in  which  the  slightest  detail  is  inexorably  deter- 
mined, combined,  throughout  its  immensity,  to  pro- 
duce this  pitiful  result  —  the  stilling  of  a  boy's 
heart,  the  breaking  of  a  woman's.  But  why?  What 
sowing  of  a  far  spring  had  resulted  in  this  winter 
reaping? 

He  had  come  to  a  little  pool,  with  a  few  gaunt 
trees  throwing  their  reflections  into  the  turbid  water. 


86  ARCADIA 

The  Clayfield  path  ran  by  it,  and  a  rough  seat  had 
been  improvised  for  any  tired  wanderer  who  chose 
to  rest,  as  at  an  oasis  within  a  barren  land.  Ward's 
eye,  roving,  caught  the  glint  of  metal.  He  checked 
his  horse  and  looked  down,  more  closely:  dismount- 
ing, he  picked  up  a  small  gold  pencil.  He  examined 
it,  curiously,  and  found  initials  engraved  on  the  side 
—  E.  W.  Wondering  who  E.  W.  was,  he  put  the 
pencil  in  his  pocket,  and,  moved  by  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, sat  down  on  the  cracked  bench.  His  horse, 
following  him  like  a  dog,  nuzzled  against  his 
shoulder. 

After  a  little  while,  he  lit  a  cigar.  Solon, 
disliking  the  light  of  the  match  and  the  aroma 
of  the  tobacco,  withdrew.  Ward  did  not  turn  his 
head:  he  knew  the  affectionate  creature  would  not 
stray. 

It  was  getting  dark:  the  air  was  colder.  He 
looked  at  the  water,  picturing  that  other  pool  which 
angels  troubled,  that  sorrow  might  be  relieved.  Mrs. 
Harrington's  face  came  before  him,  as  he  had  seen 
it  on  the  wild  night  of  the  storm,  first,  in  the  porch 
of  his  surgery,  and  later,  when  she  listened  to  those 
heavy  footsteps  descending  the  creaking  stairs.  He 
imaged  her  husband's  face,  turgid,  purple,  as  he 
had  roused  him  from  drunken  slumber,  harshly,  per- 
haps, to  communicate  his  cruel  news.  The  gross 
body  reappeared,  the  blood-shot  eyes,  as  the  drunk- 
ard lurched  into  the  living-room,  half  realizing 


ARCADIA  87 

what  he  had  been  told,  and  seeking  confirmation.  A 
strange  mating,  surely,  between  such  a  woman  and 
such  a  man! 

Smoking  his  cigar  very  slowly,  and  letting  his 
thoughts  drift  unsteered,  Ward  waited  for  something 
which  he  knew  was  going  to  happen.  The  impulse 
which  had  moved  him  to  sit  down  when  he  found 
the  pencil,  instead  of  remounting  and  riding  away, 
was  due  to  no  casual  desire,  but  to  the  curious  power 
he  seemed  to  possess,  without  comprehending  it,  of 
forecasting  the  immediate  future. 

Solon,  wistful  for  home,  whinnied  and  pawed  the 
ground.  He  took  no  notice.  Fate  had  prepared 
for  him  some  drama,  tragic  or  trivial.  Already,  on 
the  stage  of  the  overworld,  it  had  been  rehearsed; 
and  some  echo  of  the  theme  had  been  transmitted 
to  him,  faintly.  Accepting  the  impression,  without 
trying  to  explain  it  or  render  it  more  vivid,  he  waited 
for  the  public  performance. 

The  curtain  rose  abruptly.  A  hand,  heavy  and 
harsh,  was  laid  on  his  left  shoulder.  A  voice,  deep 
but  not  resonant,  came  to  him  as  if  from  a  distance. 

"  Don't  move,"  it  said,  "  or  I  '11  break  your 
damned  neck." 

"  Evidently  not  light  comedy,"  Ward  reflected. 
Not  a  muscle  had  quivered. 

The  voice  came  again.  "  I  '11  break  your  damned 
neck  anyway,"  it  said.  "  But  don't  move  if  you 
want  to  live  a  few  minutes  longer." 


88  ARCADIA 

Acquiescent,  incurious,  Ward  gazed  at  the  dull 
waters  of  the  pool.  This  was  merely  the  ordained 
prelude.  The  significance  of  the  play  would  be  ap- 
parent later. 

"  Speak,  curse  you !  "  The  command  came  sav- 
agely. "  Do  you  know  who  I  am?  Do  you  know 
why  I  'm  here  —  why  I  'm  going  to  kill  you  like 
the  damned  swine  you  are?  " 

Ward  spoke  meditatively.  "  I  don't  quite  know 
why  you  are  here,  Harrington,  but  I  shall  find 
out." 

"Yes,  by  God!"  Harrington  cried.  "You'll 
find  out!" 

Ward  went  on.  "  But  you  are  not  consistent. 
Always  be  consistent,  Harrington.  You  mentioned 
that  you  proposed  breaking  my  neck.  A  moment 
after,  you  suggested  killing  me  like  a  pig.  One 
does  n't  usually  kill  a  pig  by  breaking  its  neck,  I 
believe." 

"  No,  it  has  its  throat  cut,"  Harrington  said. 
"  Perhaps  you  don't  know,  my  fine  gentleman,  that 
I  've  got  my  knife  open  in  my  hand,  ready  to  drive 
it  into  that  white  throat  of  yours  —  a  two-inch 
blade  it 's  got  —  enough  to  make  a  pretty  gash.  I 
opened  it  when  I  saw  you  —  I  meant  to  see  you 
sooner  or  later,  but  I  did  n't  know  the  pleasure  'd 
come  so  soon  —  and  here,  where  it 's  so  quiet  and 
lonely.  The  blade  's  sharp,  doctor.  I  've  ground 
it  every  night  since  — "  He  stopped,  suddenly. 


ARCADIA  89 

"  So  you  knew  my  voice,  did  you? "  he  asked. 
"  You  recognized  me  ?  I  thought  you  would.  Aye, 
I  thought  you  would." 

"  Not  from  your  voice  only,"  Ward  said.  "  But 
there  is  a  certain  alcoholic  taint  in  your  breath 
which  is  suggestive,  though  scarcely  pleasant.  It 
would  seem  that  I  always  meet  you,  Harrington, 
under  these  unpleasant  conditions.  The  last  time 
especially,  I  remember,  there  was  the  same  taint  — 
excessively  nauseating.  Perhaps  you  have  forgotten 
the  occasion  to  which  I  refer.  You  have  no  doubt 
been  drunk  so  many  times  since  then  —  if,  indeed, 
you  have  ever  permitted  yourself  to  become  approxi- 
mately sober  —  that  any  particular  occasion  would 
naturally  slip  from  your  memory.  Permit  me  to 
recall  the  circumstances  to  you.  You  were  lying  on 
your  bed.  Slumber  had  seized  you  so  unexpectedly 
that  you  had  omitted  the  formality  of  undressing. 
You  were  breathing  stertorously.  The  blood-vessels 
of  your  head  and  neck  were  congested.  You  had 
had  a  debauch,  and  you  were  drunk  —  very  drunk. 
In  the  meantime,  your  wife  had  gone  out  in  the 
worst  storm  we  have  had  for  two  years  and  had 
battled  her  way  through  the  cold  and  the  rain  and 
the  wind,  in  utter  darkness,  to  fetch  me,  because 
her  son  was  dying.  We  came  back  together.  We 
could  not  save  him.  It  was  too  late.  But  we  re- 
lieved some  of  his  pain.  He  died.  And  you  were 
drunk." 


X 

90  ARCADIA 

Harrington  had  listened  without  interrupting. 
"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  You  told  me  some  of  that  before. 
You  woke  me  up  to  tell  me." 

"  I  thought  you  ought  to  know,"  Ward  said  drily. 
"  The  event  appeared  to  concern  you." 

"  God !  "  the  drunkard  cried.  His  left  hand, 
which  he  had  not  removed  from  Ward's  shoulder, 
pressed  down  convulsively.  It  was  some  time  before 
he  spoke  again.  When  he  did  so,  his  voice  was  like 
a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  You  're  a  hard  man,"  he  said.  "  You  don't 
know  what  you  did  when  you  woke  me  up  that  night, 
and  you  don't  care.  But  you  killed  something  in 
me  —  something  that  was  ME.  I  'm  Harrington, 
now,  in  a  way.  I  've  got  Harrington's  body  and 
Harrington's  voice.  I  do  his  work  and  live  in  his 
house.  I  get  up  early  in  the  morning  and  come 
back  at  night  —  like  this.  But  I  'm  dead.  This 
body  is  a  shell,  a  husk.  It  is  n't  real,  it  is  n't  solid. 
It  *s  a  coffin,  and  all  hell  is  writhing  inside  it. 
That  Js  your  work." 

"No,"  Ward  said,  curtly.     "Your  own." 

"  Call  it  the  devil's,"  Harrington  said.  "  That  '11 
fit  both  of  us.  I  'm  not  human,  anyway,  now.  I  'm 
mad.  You  think  I  've  been  drinking.  I  have. 
Brandy.  I  never  used  to  touch  brandy.  Beer  was 
good  enough  for  me.  Now  I  drink  a  bottle  of 
brandy  a  day.  I  live  on  it.  I  have  n't  eaten  a 
crumb  since  the  night  you  woke  me  up.  I  can't. 


ARCADIA  91 

I  Ve  hardly  slept.  I  just  burn.  That 's  your  work, 
again." 

"  I  should  put  it  down  to  the  brandy,"  Ward  said. 

Harrington  laughed  aloud.  "  You  fool !  The 
brandy 's  like  water.  It  does  n't  scorch  me.  It 
helps  to  cool  the  flames.  Can't  you  understand,  you 
cruel  beast,  what  you  did  for  me  that  night?  Can't 
you  understand  that  if  I  kill  you,  as  I  'm  going  to, 
I  'm  not  making  you  suffer  one  hundredth  part  of 
what  you  've  made  me  go  through?  But  I  '11  take 
a  life  for  a  life,  by  God !  For  you  5ve  killed  me. 
I  'm  dead.  Dead." 

When  Ward  spoke,  his  voice  had  changed:  the 
steel  had  gone  out  of  it.  "  Not  dead,"  he  said. 
"  But,  by  God's  grace,  your  soul,  perhaps,  is  being 
brought  again  to  life.  It  may  be,  Harrington,  that 
this  was  the  purpose  in  all  that  has  happened.  A 
life  for  a  life,  you  say?  Yes,  Walter's  living  soul 
for  yours:  his,  unstained,  back  to  its  Creator  and 
to  peace,  that  yours  may  burst  its  cerements  and 
come  to  its  God-given  resurrection." 

There  was  silence.  Then  something  like  a  sob 
escaped  from  Harrington.  He  withdrew  his  left 
hand  from  Ward's  shoulder. 

"  Turn  round,  sir,"  he  said. 

Ward  did  so. 

Harrington  stretched  out  his  right  hand.  "  I  had 
no  knife,"  he  said.  "You  see?" 

Ward    nodded.      "  I   understand.      You    did  not 


92  ARCADIA 

mean  to  kill.  You  wanted  to  give  me  shock  for 
shock  —  to  repay  me  for  my  harshness  that  night  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Harrington  said. 

Ward  looked  at  the  pain-seamed  face,  the  haunted 
eyes.  "  It  was  just,"  he  said.  "  Yet  I  did  not  mean 
to  be  cruel —  I  don't  know,  though,"  he  added. 
"  Perhaps  I  did.  I  think  I  wanted  to  hurt  you.  I 
am  sorry." 

"  I  had  no  knife,"  Harrington  repeated  slowly. 
"  But  I  might  have  killed  you.  I  wanted  to  make 
you  suffer;  and  there  was  murder  in  my  heart. 
Perhaps  I  meant  to  strangle  you.  Aye,  it  might 
have  come  to  that.  I  was  mad.  I  will  go  home, 
sir." 

A  clear  voice  came  through  the  gloom.  "  I  was 
wondering  how  long  you  would  be." 

The  two  men  turned.  It  was  still  light  enough 
for  Ward  to  see,  though  obscurely,  the  cloaked  form 
of  a  woman.  The  height,  the  poise,  suggested  Mrs. 
Harrington :  but  the  voice  was  different,  in  intensity, 
tone  and  pitch. 

"  I  came  to  meet  you,  James,"  she  continued. 
"  You  are  late,  I  think." 

"  Yes,  I  'm  late,"  Harrington  agreed.  It  did  not 
occur  to  him  to  introduce  Ward. 

"  Good-night,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  '11  remember 
meeting  you."  He  turned  away,  without  offering  to 
shake  hands. 

Ward  watched   them   as   they   walked   along  the 


ARCADIA  93 

path  together.  He  realized  that  this  must  be  Mrs. 
Harrington's  sister  —  Lady  Winter.  He  wondered 
if  she  had  overheard  any  of  the  strange  conversa- 
tion. Had  she  spoken  as  soon  as  she  arrived,  or 
had  she  been  a  witness  for  some  minutes,  fearing 
to  intervene? 

He  recalled  the  little  gold  pencil  that  he  had 
picked  up.  The  initials  engraved  on  it  were  E.  W. 
Possibly  it  was  hers:  the  W.  might  stand  for 
Winter.  He  would  ascertain  her  other  name.  The 
pencil,  noticed  as  he  rode,  had  been  the  cause  of 
his  dismounting.  The  impulse  to  stay  had  come 
after  he  picked  it  up.  If  it  were  really  hers,  she 
had  been  concerned,  in  some  degree,  both  with  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  the  drama. 

Solon,  perplexed  at  the  long  delay,  had  drawn 
close  to  him,  with  half-human  enquiry.  He  mounted 
and  turned  toward  home. 

It  was  a  pity,  he  thought,  that  it  had  been  so 
dark.  He  had  not  seen  her  eyes.  He  remembered 
that  Morrison  had  said  they  were  violet.  Violet 
was  an  unusual  colour.  Yet  he  associated  it,  curi- 
ously, with  her  voice. 


CHAPTER   X 

fTIHE  Sabbath  Day  —  the  Day  of  Rest. 

The  human  heart,  wayward  and  wild,  can 
never  know  peace  entirely.  Even  in  joy  there 
are  inseparable  threads  of  pain.  Music  has  not  been 
conceived  that  will  not  carry  its  undertones  of  sad- 
ness. Let  the  memory  go  back  to  the  ordered  days 
of  a  serene  life,  retracing  each  trivial  incident,  each 
larger  achievement.  If  you  have  children,  though 
they  fulfil  your  hopes  and  occupy  the  place  that 
you  designed,  flourishing,  and  caring  for  your  affec- 
tion, you  shall  not  recall  the  nursery  without  a  pang, 
nor  without  some  strange  emotion  the  trivial  pomps 
and  vanities  of  those  little  lives,  with  their  unex- 
panded  limits,  their  dependence,  their  supreme  ap- 
peal. All  change  is  inherently  tragic.  The  familiar 
details  of  the  past,  insignificant  at  their  happening, 
affairs  of  mere  routine,  stab  sharply  at  their  wilful 
or  unwilful  recollection.  The  furniture  of  a  room 
in  an  abandoned  house,  the  flowers  or  winter  bare- 
ness of  a  garden,  the  winding  paths  within  and 
without,  become  memorials  of  the  dead,  hallowed, 
but  involved  with  heartaches.  It  needs  no  sadness 
of  a  desolated  land  to  bring  to  an  exile  the  sense 


ARCADIA  95 

of  tears:  the  wayfarers  who  watch  from  an  emi- 
grant ship  the  receding  shores  of  their  native  coun- 
try, —  Erin  or  England,  depopulated  or  too  popu- 
lous, —  know  no  keener  grief  than  the  wanderer  who 
comes  again  to  his  own  community,  of  town  or  vil- 
lage, —  the  place  where  he  sinned  and  loved  before 
he  grew  to  the  stature  of  man's  strength,  —  and 
finds  but  graves  where  he  had  remembered  wedding- 
bells,  and  kindly  eyes,  and  the  voices  of  dear  friends. 
Even  the  streets,  perhaps,  are  altered.  There  are 
higher  buildings,  garish  and  prominent:  old  stone 
has  been  replaced  by  brick,  simplicity  by  stucco. 
The  mutability  of  life  is  not  confined  to  men  and 
women.  The  insentient  also  change.  In  the  flux 
and  fierce  stress  of  the  years,  the  temples  of  the 
flesh,  and  the  temples  built  with  hands,  alike  pass 
and  are  forgotten  by  a  new  generation. 

The  Day  of  Rest. 

God  gave  it  as  a  solace  for  all  weary  ones,  that 
they  might  turn  from  toil  and  unloveliness,  from 
idleness  and  folly,  from  self  and  the  importunity 
of  pain,  to  the  thought  of  the  steadfast  and  un- 
fleeting,  to  the  semblance  and  prefigurement  of  peace. 
For  the  Sabbath,  still  subject  to  the  Son  of  Man, 
is  a  means,  and  not  an  end;  a  memorial,  not  of  the 
past,  but  of  the  future,  of  the  dawning  of  that 
Eighth  Day  when  God,  Himself  resting  no  more, 
shall  give  rest  at  last  to  all  His  creatures. 

Man,  in  his  wisdom,   is   sometimes  very   stupid. 


96  ARCADIA 

Too  often,  he  paints  his  God  as  a  Fiend,  and  his 
Fiend  as  a  God.  It  is  not  unnatural  that  the  young, 
confused,  should  sometimes  turn  to  the  powers  of 
darkness,  with  their  smiling  faces  and  seductive  ways, 
and  avert  their  eyes  from  the  gloomy  frowns  of 
the  angels  of  light.  How  many  children  have  been 
crushed  beneath  the  sombreness  of  a  Sabbath  dese- 
crated by  its  very  observance!  Only  in  after  years, 
when  their  sins  have  taught  them  charity,  and  their 
despair  has  taught  them  hope,  and  their  loneliness 
has  led  them  to  faith,  they  shall  listen  again  to  the 
sound  of  bells  coming  across  the  fields,  and  com- 
prehend and  reverence  the  symbolism  of  the  Cross. 

"  Your  church  bells,"  Lord  Daventry  remarked 
at  breakfast,  "  are  energetic  but  tinkly.  It  seems 
to  me  that  in  a  district  so  idyllic  as  this,  consecrated 
to  the  lure  of  lucre  no  less  than  to  the  love  of 
Heaven,  you  should  show  your  local  pride  and  sense 
of  fitness  by  installing  a  huge  steam-siren  in  your 
antiquated  belfries.  Eh?  How  masterful  and  mu- 
sical would  be  its  summons !  How  easily  your  miners 
and  work-people  would  learn  to  associate  the  ser- 
vice of  the  Church  with  their  own  devoted  service 
in  the  mines  and  foundries.  It  would  have  the  ad- 
vantage also  of  suggesting  the  preliminary  horrors 
of  the  Day  of  Judgment,  and  thus  furnish  a  whole- 
some corrective  for  any  tendency  to  light-hearted- 
ness  or  indifference.  I  confess  that  I  stand  in  awe 


ARCADIA  97 

of  the  Day  of  Judgment.  The  popular  idea  invests 
it  with  a  publicity  which  is  revolting  to  a  sensitive 
disposition.  All  judicial  proceedings  should  be  held 
in  camera.  Eh?  " 

Ward  smiled.  "Let  us  postpone  the  Day  of 
Judgment  till  dinner,"  he  suggested,  "  and  consider 
the  possibilities  of  this  morning.  Are  you  going  to 
church? " 

"Are  you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  will  sacrifice  myself,"  Lord  Daven- 
try  said.  "  After  all,  it  is  advisable  to  encourage 
these  village  industries.  But  I  hope  Thorpe  won't 
preach.  That  little  curate  is  much  more  vivacious. 
Eh?" 

"  Morrison  always  preaches  in  the  morning," 
Ward  assured  him.  "  The  vicar  reserves  himself 
for  the  evening." 

"  Then  we  will  sit  at  the  feet  of  Morrison  and  be 
uplifted  —  though  curacy  is  really  very  immoral," 
Lord  Daventry  added.  "  One  ought  not  to  subject 
an  amiable  young  man,  with  his  character  yet  un- 
formed, to  the  perpetual  temptation  of  posing  as 
a  sinful  expert,  capable  of  leading  the  blind, 
strengthening  the  feeble,  comforting  the  sorrowful, 
uplifting  the  meek,  disgusting  the  self-satisfied,  re- 
buking the  stiff-necked,  and  intoning  melodiously. 
When  he  regards  his  own  astounding  virtues,  he 
must  inevitably  fall  in  love  with  vice,  which  has  all 


98  ARCADIA 

the  charms  of  the  unknown,  though  he  is  supposed 
to  comprehend  it  thoroughly,  that  he  may  warn  the 
uninitiated,  who  are  trying  to  scorch  themselves. 
How  can  he  be  a  guide,  philosopher  and  friend, 
when  his  morals  are  supposed  to  be  unimpeachable? 
You  might  as  well  expect  a  man  who  knows  nothing 
of  German  to  indicate  the  pitfalls  of  that  simple 
and  euphonious  language.  Eh?  Besides,  you  don't 
learn  a  thing  by  simply  looking  at  it,  by  knowing 
that  it  exists.  You  must  handle  it,  breathe  it,  live 
in  the  atmosphere.  It  is  ridiculous  to  expect  an 
innocent  and  tender  curate  to  help,  from  the  depths 
of  his  blameless  heart  and  simple  imagination,  the 
sin-worn  veterans  of  life.  He  is  quite  incompetent, 
of  course.  The  system  which  produces  him  is  sadly 
futile.  There  ought  to  be  a  strict  test,  a  graduated 
scale  of  experience  for  clerical  appointments  and 
promotions.  Covetousness  and  general  depravity 
would  suffice  for  the  priesthood.  A  candidate  for 
a  canonry  should  be  required  to  furnish  satisfactory 
evidence  of  more  definite  wickedness,  while  from  a 
bishop  nothing  less  than  a  public  esclandre  would 
be  accepted.  Then,  indeed,  a  convict  would  at  last 
feel  at  home  in  a  cathedral,  and  our  rectories  would 
be  real  refuges  for  wrecked  lives." 

"  The  service  begins  at  eleven,"  Ward  said,  with- 
out comment.  "  Would  you  prefer  to  walk,  or  shall 
I  drive  you  ?  " 

"I  will  walk,"  the  old  man  said.     "It  will  at 


ARCADIA  99 

least  show  that  I  go  of  my  own  free-will,  and  buoy 
me  up  if  Morrison  talks  about  predestination." 

The  two  walked  over  together,  first  by  the  lane, 
and  then,  branching  off,  by  the  field-path.  It  was 
a  grey  day,  depressing  and  moist;  and  the  land- 
scape seemed  raw.  A  pall  hung  over  the  Chayle 
colliery,  of  which  the  shaft-wheel  and  scaffolding 
could  be  seen  beyond  the  crest  of  the  hill  that  faced 
the  house.  In  the  other  direction,  the  chimneys  of 
the  dotted  cottages  exhaled  smoke,  slowly:  it  hung 
in  the  air,  unable  to  climb,  and  drifted  outward, 
gradually  fading  at  the  ravelled  edges,  while  the 
centre  remained  opaque.  Newchurch,  viewed  in  per- 
spective as  an  irregular  cluster  of  buildings,  domi- 
nated the  skyline  dwarfishly.  As  they  came  nearer, 
it  diffused  itself. 

The  old  man  was  silent.  Even  the  churchyard, 
damp  and  dismal,  remote  from  all  joy  of  life  or  sug- 
gestion of  ease  and  tranquillity  after  travail,  struck 
no  spark  from  his  flinty  cynicism.  When  the  sun 
shines  and  the  air  is  warm,  the  dormitory  of  the 
dead  is  not  gruesome;  the  children  of  earth  lie  re- 
laxed, companioned  and  unterrified;  the  awakening 
is  timed.  But  when  the  mould  is  wet,  and  the  head- 
stones drip,  the  resurrection  of  the  body  seems  a 
far  dream,  too  frail  to  sustain  the  intellect  in  its 
halting  flights.  Imagination  droops  morbidly  to 
the  unloveliness  of  decay;  the  exposed  skulls  grin, 
the  denuded  bones  mock  the  phantasy  of  argent 


100  ARCADIA 

limbs.  The  universe  swings  its  stars,  day  and  night 
are  strained  through  a  sieve,  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
imperial  worm  —  a  despot  to  be  dethroned  by  no 
revolt.  Lord  Daventry  pictured  himself  in  oak,  with 
its  encasing  shells.  The  first  spadeful  of  earth  fell 
heavily  —  no,  there  would  be  no  filling  in  of  a  six- 
foot  grave.  He  would  lie  on  a  stone  shelf  in  the 
vault  of  his  fathers,  contaminated  from  the  first  by 
their  older  corruption  —  A  grim  warehouse,  this 
massive  vault,  well-guarded  and  well-guarding.  But 
sooner  or  later  the  worm  would  get  in  —  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

As  they  entered  the  church,  the  bell  ceased.  Lord 
Daventry  walked  down  the  aisle  with  the  dignified 
tread  of  a  miserable  sinner  familiar  with  sacred  edi- 
fices. The  scattered  congregation  watched  him  with 
reverence.  His  grey  hair,  elaborately  marcelled; 
his  grey  trousers,  pressed  and  perfect;  his  grey 
frock-coat,  with  grey  silk  lapels,  and  his  prestige 
as  a  peer,  made  him  holy  in  their  eyes.  They 
watched  him  as  he  knelt,  and  omitted  to  scan  the 
choir  critically  when  it  emerged  from  the  vestry, 
pacing  statelily,  shepherded  by  Morrison.  The  little 
curate,  august  in  his  red  Oxford  hood,  visible  repre- 
sentative of  the  historic  continuity  of  the  Church, 
pregnant  with  apostolic  authority,  caught  Ward's 
glance,  and  lowered  infinitesimally  the  lid  of  his  left 
eye. 

The  service  commenced.    One  by  one  the  petitions 


ARCADIA  101 

of  priest  and  people  were  voiced:  confession  and 
absolution,  pleading  and  psalms  of  praise,  prayers 
that  have  echoed  through  the  centuries,  hymns  beau- 
tiful with  the  associations  that  have  gathered  round 
them  —  all  the  mighty  or  trembling  words  went 
out  to  the  living  God  who  sustains  and  interprets 
and  is  His  universe.  Lord  Daventry  was  astonished 
at  the  vital  power  that  throbbed  through  the  fixed 
formulae  and  phrases,  making  them  wonderful.  The 
dismal,  depressing  day  was  forgotten :  the  wet  mould 
of  the  churchyard,  the  gravestones  that  seemed  to 
exude  clamminess,  became  negligible  details  in  the 
superb  scheme  of  enduring,  undying  life. 

Morrison  ascended  the  pulpit-steps  and  faced  the 
concentrated  gaze  of  the  congregation.  Lord  Dav- 
entry realized  that  the  little  man,  with  his  bright, 
earnest  face,  represented  righteousness.  Unimmune 
from  the  faults  and  subject  to  the  temptations  of 
his  fellows,  it  was  his  mission  to  set  an  example  of 
self-conquest  and  to  draw  quietly  day  by  day,  promi- 
nently week  by  week,  the  attention  of  the  forgetful 
to  the  ideals  of  their  race.  Thousands  of  men  like 
the  little  curate  were  upholding  —  some  with  weak 
fingers  —  the  banner  of  duty  and  high  endeavour. 
It  were  easy  to  laugh  at  their  individual  frailties 
and  imperfections  —  the  inexperience  of  some,  the 
unworthiness  of  others,  even  the  Oxford  manner 
which  sometimes  distresses  the  critical  or  the  envi- 
ous. But  in  their  public  protest  against  evil,  their 


102  ARCADIA 

solemn  proclamation  that  the  faith  of  their  fathers 
was  still  vital  and  divine,  they  became  imposing  and 
significant.  It  was  no  longer  Morrison  of  Magdalen, 
Jones  or  Talbot  of  Trinity  or  Jesus,  who  inhabited 
a  pulpit  and  preached,  perhaps,  to  men  of  larger 
intellect  and  women  acquainted  with  the  hidden  ways 
of  sorrow.  It  was  the  representative  of  the  nation's 
conscience. 

The  curate  took  as  his  text,  separating  the  phrase 
from  its  context,  "  An  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth 
for  a  tooth  " ;  and  in  a  clear,  musical  voice  discussed 
the  meaning  of  law  and  order,  the  impossibility  of 
a  cause  existing  without  the  effect.  As  a  man  sowed, 
assuredly  he  should  reap;  and  the  grain  of  his 
reaping  should  be  seed  for  other  sowings.  Life  feeds 
life.  The  mystery  of  penitence  and  pardon  was 
indicated,  not  as  suggesting  a  shirking  of  responsi- 
bilities incurred,  of  payment  due  and  demanded,  but 
as  involving  regeneration,  an  insight  into  the  divine 
view,  recognition  and  complete  acceptance  of  divine 
justice.  None  could  discard  their  sins  at  any  mo- 
ment, and  start  afresh,  free  and  untrammelled.  But 
they  could  rise  into  a  higher  universe  of  thought 
and  faith,  from  which  the  old  life,  with  all  its  errors, 
and  the  consequences  of  those  errors,  could  be  seen 
in  true  proportion.  A  child  of  the  slums,  playing 
in  a  thronged  street,  eager  to  live  to  the  full  his 
little  life,  might  have  his  foot  crushed  by  a  heavy 
wagon.  The  grown  man,  though  he  had  passed  for- 


ARCADIA  103 

ever  from  the  slums  and  left  far  behind  the  ways  of 
neglected  childhood,  must  still  go  crippled  for  that 
early  mischance.  But  the  more  he  had  grown  toward 
the  full  stature  of  manhood,  the  more  completely 
he  could  reconcile  himself  to  that  enduring  payment 
for  an  early  blunder.  It  was  the  mark  of  his  own 
unity.  Without  that  unity,  he  could  not  exist; 
could  not  have  climbed  to  his  new  position  of  knowl- 
edge and  insight ;  could  not  hope  to  climb  to  a  point 
still  higher.  Comprehending  his  weakness  as  a  child, 
he  would  not  blame  himself  for  the  child's  slip,  the 
child's  carelessness,  the  child's  acceptance  of  the  risks 
of  the  crowded  street.  But  the  consequence  re- 
mained. So,  with  penitence,  there  was  forgiveness 
of  sins;  and  with  forgiveness,  remission  of  punish- 
ment. For  punishment  is  a  penalty  forced  upon  a 
stubborn  and  rebellious  mind.  When  the  mind  ceases 
to  resist,  and  accepts  the  necessity  of  justice,  there 
is  no  longer  punishment,  which  depends  upon  re- 
sentment. There  are  merely  inevitable  consequences, 
which  endure  and  must  be  endured.  There  is  no 
easy  way  out  from  the  House  of  Sin.  All  debts 
must  be  paid  in  full. 

Lord  Daventry  listened  attentively,  recognizing 
the  curate's  earnestness,  his  desire  to  make  clear 
the  lesson  of  responsibility,  of  unescapable  payment 
for  every  purchase.  The  old  man  smiled  at  the 
imperfect  logic,  the  clumsy  illustration,  the  incom- 
plete development  of  the  theme;  but  it  was  not 


104  ARCADIA 

wholly  with  amusement  that  his  thin  lips  twitched, 
as  he  recalled  his  own  purchases  in  life's  bazaar,  and 
the  payments  that  were  not  yet  completed.  If  he 
were  permitted  to  settle  the  account  personally,  he 
would  not  grumble.  But  sometimes  the  bill  was 
presented,  not  to  the  one  who  had  contracted  the 
debt,  but  to  the  heirs  of  his  estate,  the  inheritors 
of  his  wealth  or  poverty.  He  glanced  at  Ward,  and 
perceived  that  his  grandson's  eyes  were  directed  to 
the  left:  following  the  line,  he  saw,  several  pews 
forward,  on  the  opposite  side,  two  ladies,  dressed 
in  black. 

The  day  was  brighter  when  the  service  concluded 
and  the  congregation  streamed  slowly  from  the 
church.  Ward,  with  a  word  to  Lord  Daventry,  went 
into  the  vestry  to  speak  with  Morrison  about  the 
old  woman  at  Mow  Hill.  When  he  rejoined  his 
grandfather,  they  walked  down  the  winding  path  to 
the  gate.  Lord  Daventry  observed,  coming  down 
another  diagonal  path,  the  two  ladies  to  whom  Ward 
had  unconsciously  directed  his  attention  during  the 
sermon.  They  all  met  at  the  gate.  Ward  took  off 
his  hat.  Lord  Daventry,  raising  his  own  hat,  gazed 
curiously  at  one  of  the  faces. 

Mrs.  Harrington  stopped.  "  Dr.  Ward,  let  me 
introduce  you  to  my  sister." 

Ward,  bowing,  gazed  into  Lady  Winter's  violet 
eyes. 

He  did  not  speak  for  a  little  while,  then,  remem- 


ARCADIA  105 

bering  his  grandfather,  he  completed  the  circle  of 
introductions. 

Lady  Winter  in  many  ways  resembled  her  sister. 
She  was  slender  in  form,  and  slightly  above  medium 
height.  The  contour  of  her  face,  with  its  almost 
perfect  proportions,  suggested  the  relationship :  but, 
unlike  Mrs.  Harrington's,  it  retained  the  softness 
and  the  colour  of  girlhood  and  was  unlined.  Her 
hair  had  perplexing  tints  of  bronze  and  gold,  while 
her  sister's  was  a  simple  dull  brown.  Her  violet 
eyes,  unusually  large,  seemed  slumbrous,  indifferent. 
Ward  wondered  how  they  would  look,  lustrous,  un- 
leashed, vivid  with  passion.  Coldly,  he  glanced  at 
her  lips. 

Lord  Daventry,  surveying  her  with  an  air  of  polite 
aloofness,  was  considering,  critically,  impressions 
suddenly  revived.  When  the  process  of  association 
and  reconstruction  was  completed,  he  found  himself 
picturing  a  large  room,  brilliant  with  lights,  susur- 
rant  with  vague  babble,  thronged  with  men  and 
women,  who,  released  from  the  boredom  or  enchant- 
ment of  the  theatre,  desired  to  eat  and  drink;  to 
continue  to  live,  to  tempt,  perhaps,  new  variations 
of  old  experiences.  At  a  small  round  table,  he  per- 
ceived, clearly,  two  men :  one,  stalwart,  blond,  barely 
middle-aged;  the  other,  old,  somewhat  shrivelled, 
with  an  aquiline  nose  —  indubitably,  himself.  At 
another  table,  he  saw  a  woman,  slender,  beautiful, 
with  strange,  violet  eyes  — 


106  ARCADIA 

Calmly,  with  the  same  air  of  detachment,  he  con- 
tinued to  gaze  at  Lady  Winter. 

She  was  speaking.  Ward,  listening,  perceived 
that  her  voice  was  not  only  musical  and  soft,  but 
that  it  had  also  a  peculiar  timbre,  which  suggested, 
irresistibly,  a  colour;  and  involved  with  the  colour, 
a  pervading  sense  of  sexuality. 

"  It  is  curious  that  I  have  not  met  you  before, 
Lord  Daventry;  but  I  shall  probably  meet  you 
again  before  long.  Lady  Normacott  has  asked  me 
to  stay  with  her  in  June." 

"  You  know  my  mother?"  Ward  asked,  astonished. 

"  I  met  Lady  Normacott  in  London." 

"  I  begin  to  realize,"  Lord  Daventry  said,  "  that 
the  only  way  to  escape  from  the  unexpected  is  to 
expect  it.  I  certainly  did  not  imagine  that  I  should 
meet  here,  in  this  simple,  Arcadian  neighbourhood, 
any  individual  so  complicated  and  sophisticated  as 
a  friend  of  my  daughter-in-law  must  inevitably  be. 
The  rencontres  of  life  are  certainly  strange." 

To  himself,  he  said :  "  This,  undoubtedly,  is  the 
charming  lady  whom  I  saw  at  Bishop's  —  not  ac- 
companied by  her  husband.  And  Lilian  knows  her. 
She  has  sent  her  an  invitation  —  "  His  lips  twitched, 
slightly. 

"  If  they  were  not  strange,"  Lady  Winter  ob- 
served, "  they  would  become  monotonous.  I  dislike 
monotony." 

"  It  would  be  impossible  to  call  our  first  meeting 


ARCADIA  107 

monotonous,"  Lord  Daventry  said.  He  added,  en- 
quiringly, "  You  have  but  recently  returned  from 
America?  " 

She  lifted  her  eyebrows.     "  A  year  ago." 

"  Probably,"  Lord  Daventry  remarked,  "  you 
found  much  to  interest  you  in  that  country  of  much 
interest.  I  myself  returned  two  years  ago.  But 
my  impressions  are  still  vivid." 

"  It  is  almost  odd,"  she  said  pensively,  "  that  we 
did  not  meet  there.  In  a  large  country,  there  is 
so  much  room  for  accidental  encounters." 

Lord  Daventry  agreed.  "  It  is  only  when  people 
live  in  the  same  hotel,"  he  suggested,  "  that  they 
never  see  each  other.  You  and  I,  wandering  through 
half  a  continent,  and  concealed  amongst  a  popula- 
tion of  ninety  millions,  possibly  stood  side  by  side 
without  realizing  the  importance  of  the  incident. 
Yet  it  seems  to  me,"  he  added  deliberately,  "  that 
I  could  scarcely  forget  any  encounter,  however  slight, 
with  —  Lady  Winter." 

She  smiled.  "  Is  that  a  compliment,  or  an  in- 
nuendo? " 

"  A  mere  statement  of  fact,"  Lord  Daventry  said. 

After  standing  for  a  little  while  at  the  gate  of 
the  churchyard,  they  had  been  walking  very  slowly 
on.  Now,  they  had  reached  the  parting  of  the 
ways. 

"  I  return  home  shortly,"  Lord  Daventry  ob- 
served. "  But  I  hope  to  see  you  again  in  June. 


108  ARCADIA 

It  will  be  a  perfect  godsend  to  have  an  intelligent 
person  in  the  house.  Lilian  possesses  an  instinct 
for  fatuousness.  She  calls  it  eccentricity.  Eccen- 
tricity, she  considers,  constitutes  genius.  As  she 
worships  genius,  and  I  myself  never  issue  any  invi- 
tations, our  house-parties  are  a  trifle  dull.  Eh, 
John  ?  —  You,  Lady  Winter,  with  your  contempt 
for  monotony,  will  cheer  us  up.  I  will  not  say 
good-bye.  Au  revoir." 

He  bowed.  Ward,  quite  silent,  lifted  his  hat. 
The  two  ladies,  with  more  than  a  mile  still  to  be 
traversed,  began  to  walk  briskly.  The  two  men  — 
the  old,  and  the  young ;  the  blase  and  the  untempted 
—  turned  toward  home,  each  busy  with  his  own 
thoughts.  Lord  Daventry  reflected  upon  the  irony 
of  life,  upon  the  exactness  of  destiny,  which  is  called 
fortuitousness.  He,  alone,  perhaps,  in  England, 
knew  with  some  completeness  the  history  of  this 
woman,  with  her  manifold  experiences,  discreetly 
separated  from  present  notoriety  by  the  Atlantic. 
And  it  was  he  who  had  been  destined  to  meet  her, 
in  this  remote  district,  so  alien  from  her  usual  en- 
vironment. It  was  certainly  humorous  that  his 
daughter-in-law  should  have  invited  her  to  Dav- 
entry, where  he  could  amuse  himself  by  studying 
a  personality  of  such  exceptional  interest. 

To  Ward,  the  way  home  was  lit  by  large,  slum- 
brous eyes.  In  the  air  was  the  music  of  a  voice, 
low,  soft,  peculiarly  caressing. 


PART   II 
BABYLON 


PART    II 
BABYLON 

CHAPTER    I 

LADY    NORMACOTT    did    not    deserve    her 
father-in-law's  disparagement. 

She  was  a  woman  of  much  charm  and  dig- 
nity; kindly,  though  not  demonstrative;  and  still 
comparatively  young.  Yet  the  years  had  left  their 
record  in  sufficient  measure;  there  were  many  little 
lines  beneath  the  eyes ;  her  forehead  was  no  longer 
smooth ;  and  a  grey  tinge  showed  through  the  brown 
of  her  beautiful  hair. 

Her  life  had  not  been  free  from  tragic  episodes, 
though  the  poignancy  of  painful  memories  had  be- 
come dulled  as  she  settled  down  to  the  routine  of 
making  a  large  income  as  inconspicuous  as  possible. 
Married  before  her  first  season  was  completed,  she 
had  been  busy  with  the  imperious  exactions  of  a 
nursery  while  the  associations  of  her  own  dolls  and 
childish  toys  still  lingered.  She  loved  her  husband. 
In  subtle  activity  of  mind,  in  winsomeness  of  way 
and  mood,  he  had  revived  the  finer  traditions  of  his 


112  BABYLON 

erratic  race.  His  friends  asserted,  with  the  melan- 
choly pleasure  of  those  who  contemplate  an  inevit- 
able catastrophe,  that  he  had  the  charm  which 
seemed  a  heritage  of  the  wickedest  and  wildest  of 
the  Wards.  Whether  he  would  have  justified  their 
pessimism,  is  a  matter  merely  of  curious  surmise. 
He  had  taken  but  a  few  overt  steps,  —  indeed,  had 
scarcely  joined  the  throng  of  the  world's  revellers, 
—  when  an  accident  in  the  hunting  field  put  an  end 
to  all  criticism  and  speculation.  Carried  home  with 
a  broken  back,  he  lingered  astonishingly  for  three 
weeks,  preserving,  through  the  agony  of  that  long 
vigil,  a  courtesy,  almost  a  debonairness,  of  manner 
which  brought  to  his  wife's  eyes  the  tears  that  had 
been  denied  to  estrangement  and  infidelity.  Some- 
thing of  amusement  gleamed  in  his  own  grey  eyes 
as  he  watched  the  sunlight  of  the  day,  or  the  softer 
glow  of  the  shaded  lamps  at  night,  knowing  that 
he  would  never  again  walk  abroad  in  the  warm,  lit 
air,  or  tempt  fortune  within  walls,  staking  youth 
and  gold  against  the  usual  futilities.  He  had  played 
with  fate,  and  fate  had  euchred  him  in  the  first 
game.  Well,  it  were  no  use  grumbling  at  the  cards. 
He  had  lost,  and  must  pay.  Better  to  settle  his 
debts  with  a  smile,  than  with  a  snarl. 

They  buried  him  in  the  great  vault  in  Daventry 
churchyard,  with  much  stately  ceremonial.  Then 
the  county  returned  to  its  placid  ways.  Lord  Dav- 
entry, having  gazed  upon  his  dead  son's  face,  flung 


BABYLON  113 

a  taunt  at  the  bereaved  widow  and  secluded  himself 
in  his  apartments.  Emerging,  he  apologized  politely 
for  the  rudeness,  substituting  an  edged  epigram. 
Throughout  the  funeral  observances,  he  conducted 
himself  irreproachably.  When  the  vault  had  one 
more  inhabitant,  securely  sheltered;  when  the  last 
carriage  had  driven  away  and  the  little  village  was 
left  to  its  customary  silence,  its  sunshine,  and  its 
dead,  —  he  drove  back  to  the  old,  ivied  Hall, 
and  dismissed  his  valet  for  assuming  a  melancholy 
air. 

"  Very  irritating  and  impertinent,"  he  said. 
"  You  may  take  six  months'  wages,  and  leave  to- 
night. Write  your  own  character  and  I  will  sign 
it." 

The  man  went,  and  upon  the  strength  of  his  tes- 
timonial immediately  secured  a  new  situation,  with 
extravagant  wages.  He  was  succeeded  by  Philpotts. 
On  one  of  the  rare  occasions  when  he  had  been 
known  to  talk,  Philpotts  had  asserted  that  Lord 
Daventry  never  regretted  his  son's  death,  since  he 
—  Philpotts  —  had  been  the  direct  and  indispensable 
result.  Thus  great  events  may  hinge  on  mere  de- 
tails. Lord  Normacott  had  been  dead  for  twenty- 
three  years.  During  twenty-three  years,  the  indis- 
pensability  of  Philpotts  had  become  a  legend,  steadily 
enlarging  itself.  It  was  now  monumental. 

Lady  Normacott  had  suffered.  Many  women  may 
pass  with  cheerfulness  through  the  day,  yet  find  the 


114  BABYLON 

discipline  of  the  vacant  nights  a  hard  training.  She 
had  her  children,  however,  and  was  comforted.  They 
gave  her  relief  from  brooding,  and  added,  in  due 
time,  their  own  complementary  gifts  of  care. 

George,  the  eldest,  was  known  by  his  father's 
courtesy  title.  He  was  a  dull  boy,  unemotional; 
neither  vicious  nor  deliberately  virtuous.  Lord 
Daventry,  from  the  first,  called  him  a  fool;  later, 
an  expletive  fool;  and  finally,  unwilling  to  coin 
more  epithets,  he  referred  to  him,  with  a  shrug  of 
the  shoulders  and  a  pause,  merely  as  George  — 
a  name  which  became  so  completely  identified  with 
its  owner  that  it  at  once  conveyed  his  qualifications 
and  general  attributes.  As  he  grew  older,  he  de- 
veloped a  trend  toward  sensuality  of  a  sordid,  un- 
original type.  The  boy  was  sent  down  from  Ox- 
ford; muddled  away  two  years  at  an  army  cram- 
mer's; and  then  assumed  the  role  of  a  man  about 
town.  Lady  Normacott  lived  in  constant  fear  — 
concealed  but  disconcerting  —  that  he  would  bring 
home  a  chorus  girl  to  share  with  her  the  name  that 
she  had  borne  alone  for  so  many  years.  This 
achievement  was  so  strikingly  unoriginal  that  it 
would  obviously  appeal  to  his  temperament. 

John,  the  younger  son,  had  shown  different  in- 
clinations. Quiet  and  self-contained,  he  had  altered 
little  in  character  during  boyhood  and  youth.  In 
spite  of  his  reserve  —  or  perhaps,  because  of  it  — 
he  had  been  popular  at  Eton.  Lord  Daventry,  dis- 


BABYLON  115 

gusted  with  George  and  his  Oxford  stupidities,  had 
insisted  upon  the  younger  boy  going  to  Cambridge, 
"  where  he  would  n't  be  handicapped  by  his  brother's 
reputation  for  idiocy."  He  was  accordingly  en- 
tered —  his  own  name  slightly  influencing  the  choice 
—  at  St.  John's.  In  his  second  year,  he  secured  his 
place  in  the  'Varsity  eight  and  experienced  the 
pleasure  of  pursuing  from  Putney  to  Mortlake  a 
boat  which  he  did  not  see  from  the  moment  the 
starter's  pistol  was  fired  until  the  race  was  over. 
The  following  year,  the  order  was  reversed  and  for 
a  brief  period  he  was  a  portion  of  eight  heroes  and 
a  coxswain.  He  came  down  with  a  First  in  Natural 
Science,  and  a  determination,  bewildering  to  his 
mother  and  his  grandfather,  to  study  medicine. 

"  Why  medicine?  "  Lord  Daventry  demanded. 

"  Why  not?  "  Ward  asked. 

"  It  is  n't  usual." 

"  Precisely.  But  I  prefer  not  to  be  simply  — 
usual." 

The  old  man  regarded  him  thoughtfully.  "  You 
have  an  allowance,  which  I  can  augment.  Why  not 
the  Diplomatic  Service,  or  the  Bar,  or  Parliament? 
Eh?" 

"Or  nothing  at  all?"  John  suggested.  "It  is 
an  easy  profession.  George  seems  to  be  making  a 
brilliant  success  of  it." 

"  This  is  not  a  case,"  Lord  Daventry  returned, 
"  of  —  "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  paused 


116  BABYLON 

slightly  —  "  George.  You  have  brains.  I  should 
like  you  to  do  something  sensible  in  this  very  silly 
world." 

"  I  propose  to,"  Ward  said.  "  Something  better 
worth  doing,  in  my  opinion,  than  imitating  the 
cacklers  in  the  House  of  Commons." 

"  Very  well,"  Lord  Daventry  said.  "  Make  an 
ass  of  yourself,  if  you  will.  I  offer  you  a  career. 
You  prefer  to  be  an  undertaker's  pimp.  Go  and 
pimp." 

Ward  went.  He  secured  his  M.B.,  his  M.D.,  and 
his  hospital  experience.  Ultimately,  he  had  settled 
at  Newchurch,  selecting  the  dreary  district,  as  he 
had  chosen  his  profession,  without  regarding  the 
protests  of  his  grandfather,  or  any  preferences  ex- 
cept his  own.  And  Lord  Daventry,  admiring  him 
for  the  exhibition  of  will-power,  visited  him  regu- 
larly for  the  congenial  purpose  of  gibing  at  things 
local  and  universal. 

Lady  Normacott's  third  child  was  a  daughter, 
Ethel.  Less  reserved  than  John,  she  resembled  him 
in  many  ways  and  cherished  for  him  an  affection 
which  had  its  roots  in  the  close  intimacy  of  their 
childhood.  Except  for  a  brief  interval  spent  at  a 
convent-school  in  France,  she  had  remained  at  home 
—  for  Daventry  had  always  been  her  home.  The 
Hall  was  big  enough,  as  Lord  Daventry  had  ob- 
served at  his  son's  marriage,  "  to  shelter  several 
families  of  fools  " ;  and  he  confidently  expected  that 


BABYLON  117 

the  present  Lord  Norraacott  would  soon  attempt 
to  furnish  it  partially  in  that  way. 

During  his  Eton  and  Cambridge  days,  Ward  had 
naturally  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  vacations 
with  his  own  people,  and  the  affection  between  his 
sister  and  himself  had  been  strengthened  by  the 
close  companionship,  by  their  common  interests,  and 
corresponding  characters.  But  since  his  prolonged 
absence,  first  in  London  and  then  at  Newchurch, 
Ethel  had  drawn  nearer  to  her  mother,  gradually 
comprehending  the  sadness  now  inherent  in  the  life 
of  the  older  woman,  perplexed  and  alarmed  by 
George's  misconduct  and  the  ominous  outlook  for 
the  future.  Lady  Normacott  had  been  made  ac- 
quainted with  care  at  an  age  so  early  that  the  nov- 
elty of  her  experiences  at  first  obscured  reflection 
and  regret.  But  these  had  soon  become  more  defi- 
nite and  distressing.  Her  nature,  naturally  emo- 
tional, had  developed  until  the  acute  stage  was 
reached.  With  the  increase  of  intensity,  there  was 
a  narrowing  of  scope:  the  whole  of  her  thoughts 
and  affections  were  concentred  upon  her  children. 
She  watched  them  with  a  tenderness  almost  morbid: 
when  they  were  away  from  her,  she  suffered  keenly. 
Their  attitude  toward  herself,  their  responsiveness 
or  imagined  indifference,  caused  her  perpetual  dis- 
quietude. Her  face,  losing  its  softness,  grew  wist- 
ful: her  nerves,  overstrained,  began  to  torment  her. 
Fortunately,  her  commonsense,  aided  by  a  few 


118  BABYLON 

pointed  remarks  from  Lord  Daventry,  came  to  her 
rescue.  She  realized  that  it  was  necessary  to  find 
some  distraction,  some  interest  which,  while  making 
slight  demands  upon  energy  and  emotion,  would 
serve  to  bridge  the  gaps  in  her  life,  occupying  her 
mind  with  more  mechanical  employment  and  reliev- 
ing the  dangerous  tendency  to  brood.  Searching 
for  something  spacious  yet  unimportant,  promising 
variety  and  amusement,  but  no  strenuous  appeals, 
she  selected  modern  literature  —  as  she  conceived 
it.  In  such  an  atmosphere,  her  brain  would  find  a 
soothing  and  agreeable  narcotic. 

She  began  to  cultivate  the  society  of  those  men 
and  women  who  specialized  in  the  obvious  and  so 
had  ample  leisure  to  escape  obscurity.  Occasionally, 
a  sportsman  drifted  into  the  circle,  an  explorer  or 
a  mere  globe-trotter,  if  a  book  of  memoirs  had  been 
issued  or  was  supposed  to  be  contemplated.  The 
house  was  now  full  of  such  people.  More  reputa- 
tions coruscated  at  Daventry  than  were  usually 
found  wrecked  in  the  drift  of  a  London  week.  Lady 
Winter,  who  had  chosen  to  remember  an  early  and 
informal  invitation,  was  on  a  different  footing; 
Lady  Normacott  had  heard  her  described  as  an 
enigma,  and  she  had  long  desired  to  add  an  enigma 
to  her  collection.  Yet  Lady  Winter  owed  some,  at 
least,  of  her  welcome  to  the  unwarranted  report 
that  she  was  preparing  a  vivacious  book  dealing 
with  her  American  experiences.  It  was  understood 


BABYLON  119 

vaguely  that  she  had  had  American  experiences. 
She  had  already  gained  a  reputation  as  a  humorist 
by  not  contradicting  the  statements,  attributed  to 
her  by  a  successful  morning  paper,  that  American 
women  were  charming,  in  spite  of  their  husbands ; 
that  American  men  always  married  in  haste  and  re- 
pented in  Nevada;  and  that  Missouri,  true  to  her 
traditions,  was  steadily  digging  up  the  Tree  of 
Knowledge,  though  not  quite  sure  where  it  was 
buried.  Lady  Normacott  was  amused  by  these  re- 
marks, which  she  failed  to  comprehend:  they  there- 
fore did  not  bore  her.  She  admitted  that  she  was 
curious  with  regard  to  the  Missouri  saying,  and 
was  not  enlightened  by  being  told  that  Missourians 
also  were  curious  people. 

"  Lady  Winter,"  she  said  to  her  daughter,  "  is 
undoubtedly  very  clever.  Nobody  quite  understands 
her." 

She  was  sitting  in  her  boudoir,  in  the  afternoon 
of  a  warm  day,  trying  not  to  think.  Ethel  had 
brought  her  a  letter,  which  had  come  by  the  second 
post. 

"  Never  mind  Lady  Winter,"  the  girl  said.  "  Read 
your  letter.  It 's  from  John.  That 's  why  I  brought 
it  up  myself.  Shall  I  open  it  for  you?  " 

Lady  Normacott  held  the  letter  in  her  hand,  turn- 
ing it  over. 

"  I  wonder  what  he  wanted  to  write  about  ?  "  she 
said. 


120  BABYLON 

"Why  not  find  out?"  Ethel  suggested. 

"  I  hope  —  "  Lady  Normacott  began,  and  went 
on  slowly,  altering  the  sentence :  "  Perhaps  he  is 
not  well?  " 

"  You  know  John  would  n't  write  to  you  to  say 
he  had  a  headache,"  her  daughter  pointed  out. 
"  Do  open  the  letter,  mother." 

"  I  expect,"  Lady  Normacott  said  resignedly, 
"  that  he  has  broken  down  through  overwork.  It 
is  quite  possible  that  he  has  brain  fever.  I  was 
convinced  when  he  first  went  to  Newchurch  that 
something  like  this  was  inevitable." 

"  He  may  even  be  dead,"  Ethel  said  gravely. 
"  He  would  be  sure  to  write  to  you  and  break  the 
news  gently,  wouldn't  he?" 

Lady  Normacott  reflected,  and  then  opened  the 
letter. 

"  He  is  coming  home,"  she  announced  after  a 
moment.  "  He  is  quite  well,  he  says,  but  would 
like  a  change.  I  expect  he  wants  to  be  bright- 
ened up  a  little.  It  is  fortunate  we  have  a  few 
people  in  the  house.  He  will  enjoy  meeting 
them." 

Ethel  had  picked  up  the  letter.  "  Oh,  he  is  com- 
ing to-night.  I  am  so  glad." 

"  John  never  comes  to-morrow,"  Lady  Normacott 
remarked,  profoundly. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Lord  Daventry, 
receiving  permission,  entered. 


BABYLON  121 

"  I  have  a  note,"  he  said,  "  from  John.  He  has 
suddenly  determined  —  " 

"  Yes ;  he  has  written  to  me,"  Lady  Normacott 
said. 

"  May  I  ask,"  Lord  Daventry  enquired,  "  merely 
as  a  matter  of  idle  curiosity,  where  you  intend  to 
put  him?  Eh?  The  house  is  so  full  of  your  ami- 
able poetlings  and  their  amiable  wives  that  I  really 
don't  quite  see  —  " 

"  He  can  have  George's  room,"  Lady  Normacott 
said. 

"  No."  Lord  Daventry  spoke  sharply.  "  It 
would  be  criminal  to  put  an  intelligent  being  into 
a  room  sacred  to  the  associations  of  such  a  charm- 
ing person  as  —  "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
paused  —  "  George.  I  refuse  to  permit  it." 

"  The  other  rooms  are  occupied,"  Lady  Norma- 
cott observed,  a  little  stiffly. 

"  Then  John  had  better  put  up  in  the  village. 
It  would  be  appropriate  for  my  grandson  to  stay 
at  an  inn,  while  his  own  home  is  flooded  with  fools." 

"  John  shall  have  his  old  room,"  Ethel  decided. 
"  I  only  use  it  as  a  dressing-room,  and  it  can  soon 
be  fixed  up  for  him." 

"  Very  well,"  Lord  Daventry  agreed.  "  That  is 
better.  But  I  wish,  Lilian,"  he  added,  to  his 
daughter-in-law,  "  that  you  would  not  try  to  turn 
the  house  into  a  sardine-tin.  You  suffer  fools  rather 
too  gladly." 


122  BABYLON 

"  It  is  perhaps  better,"  Lady  Normacott  said 
gently,  "  than  some  other  kinds  of  suffering." 

"  A  feminine  sophism,"  Lord  Daventry  rejoined, 
"  or,  if  not  a  sophism,  certainly  feminine,  and  there- 
fore ridiculous."  He  withdrew,  somewhat  hastily. 

Ethel,  standing  by  her  mother,  bent  down  and 
kissed  her.  "  If  everything  women  do  is  ridiculous," 
she  said,  "  love  must  be  screamingly  idiotic,  must  n't 
it?" 

Lady  Normacott  stroked  her  daughter's  hand. 
"  Dear,"  she  replied  with  wisdom,  "  men  are  some- 
times far  more  feminine,  really,  than  women." 


CHAPTER    II 

IN  the  beautiful  garden,  fair  women  and  brave 
men  of  letters  loitered,  pacing  slowly;  or  still 
more  restfully,  reclined  in  willow  chairs,  shel- 
tered by  awnings  from  the  summer  sun.  It  was  a 
time  for  musing  and  light  converse,  for  tea  and  its 
gentle  inspiration,  for  biscuits  and  attenuated  bread 
and  butter.  Little  cups,  delicate  as  moulded  rose- 
petals,  were  handed  round.  The  Poet  Who  Had 
Wandered  asserted  that  he  could  detect  a  faint, 
elusive  odour  —  a  soup9on  of  Souchong  —  mingling 
with  the  scents  of  myriad  flowers.  It  reminded  him 
of  his  journeyings  in  the  painted  Orient,  of  his 
voluntary  exile  for  so  many  years  at  the  ends  of 
the  world.  He  added,  that  he  had  learnt  much  in 
suffering  that  he  hoped  to  teach  in  song. 

The  Poet  Who  Had  Remained  at  Home  observed 
that  he  had  learnt  much  in  song  that  he  hoped  to 
teach  in  suffering.  He  did  not  intend  this  as  a 
mere  parody  of  a  platitude. 

Ward  enquired,  in  suffering  to  whom?  To  him- 
self, or  to  his  readers? 

The  Unexiled  answered,  to  both:  for  to  suffer 
was  to  be  ennobled. 

The  Poet  Who  Had  Wandered  agreed:    he  him- 


124  BABYLON 

self,  with  one  foot  in  the  Philippines  and  the  other 
treading,  in  fancy,  his  native  shores,  had  been  aware 
of  the  exaltation  of  melancholy.  It  was  in  such  a 
mood  that  he  had  composed  his  Ode  to  My  Tailor, 
to  accentuate,  as  it  were,  the  contrast  between  the 
complexity  of  civilization  and  the  simplicity  of  sav- 
agery. For  the  primitive  savage  existed  —  when  he 
was  not  extinct  —  without  clothes,  without  morals, 
and  without  regrets:  in  fact,  without  any  of  the 
indispensable  inconveniences  of  life. 

The  Cynic  said  that  in  his  opinion  clothes  made 
prigs,  morals  made  prudes  and  regrets  made 
pessimists. 

The  Greatest  Living  Novelist  suggested  that  that 
was  surely  a  little  pornographic,  but  admitted  that 
the  meaning  of  the  word  "  pornographic  "  was  not 
quite  clear  to  her.  It  had  a  pretty  sound,  however, 
and  she  often  used  it. 

The  Cynic  said  that  he  now  believed,  after  re- 
flection, that  the  saying,  whether  pornographic  or 
not,  should  be  transposed:  it  was  his  matured  con- 
viction that  prigs  were  responsible  for  the  clothes 
of  the  world,  prudes  for  the  morals  of  the  world, 
and  pessimists  for  the  regrets  of  the  world.  Alto- 
gether, the  world  was  in  a  very  sad  condition.  The 
only  hope  of  redemption  lay  in  popularizing  air- 
ships and  guaranteeing  frequent  accidents,  which 
would  enable  the  passengers  to  get  back  to  the  land 
without  delay. 


BABYLON  125 

The  American  Poet,  tall  and  languid,  differed.  He 
presumed  that  the  last  flight  of  fancy  was  not  in- 
tended to  be  taken  seriously;  but  with  regard  to 
the  rest  —  surely  everything  depended  upon  the 
point  of  view,  upon  the  state  of  health  and  the 
number  of  hours  devoted  to  sleep.  He  himself  usu- 
ally went  to  bed  at  eleven  and  rose  at  half  past  six. 
Then,  when  the  dew  was  still  glistening  —  it  was 
wiser  to  wear  rubbers  —  he  could  see  the  slow,  ample 
beauty  of  the  world  unfolding  itself  in  a  dawn-lit 
panorama,  while  on  the  distant  hills  rested  the 
glamour  of  high,  perpetual  stability.  Yes,  the  world 
was  all  right  if  the  flesh  were  properly  cared  for, 
and  the  devil  kept  in  check. 

The  Poet  Who  Had  Wandered  sighed.  How  was 
it  possible  for  a  man  of  passionate  responsiveness 
to  keep  in  check  that  flood  of  memories  —  surely 
memory  was  the  devil  to  an  exile !  —  which  could 
be  drowned  only  in  an  ampler  flood  of  wine?  There, 
at  once,  was  the  temptation,  and  the  triumph.  With- 
out wine,  sin  would  lose  much  of  its  traditional 
savour.  Yes.  But  sorrow  would  lose  its  antidote, 
memory  its  ansesthetic.  There  were  storm-worn 
souls  to  whom  Veuve  Clicquot  was  a  mere  necessity 
of  existence.  Or  whisky.  Whisky  was  sordid,  but 
strangely  intoxicating. 

The  Critic,  a  nervous,  self-centred  little  man,  said 
jerkily  that  he  did  not  agree  with  the  American 
Poet  in  his  view  that  the  world  was  all  right.  The 


126  BABYLON 

world  was  undoubtedly  censorious,  scandal-loving, 
unjust,  unforgiving,  unappreciative,  cold,  hypocriti- 
cal and  mawkish. 

The  Humorist  said  he  would  draw  a  map  of  the 
world,  with  all  the  undesirable  names  left  out.  It 
would  be  a  very  blank  map. 

The  Greatest  Living  Novelist  believed  that  the 
heart  of  the  people  was  in  tune  with  the  Infinite. 
She  trusted  the  public,  the  public  trusted  her,  and 
she  would  like  another  cup  of  tea. 

Lady  Normacott  listened,  content  and  quiescent. 
How  much  was  intended  as  badinage,  how  much  as 
seriqus  self-revelation,  she  did  not  know.  But  she 
felt,  vaguely,  that  she  was  encouraging  literature. 

Lady  Winter  had  risen.  With  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible movement  of  the  head,  she  invited  Ward  to 
join  her.  They  strolled  down  one  of  the  winding 
paths. 

The  Greatest  Living  Novelist  watched  them  go. 
She  had  manufactured  so  much  burning  passion  for 
her  readers,  that  the  real  thing  came  to  her  as  a 
breath  of  simplicity  in  an  atmosphere  of  pretence. 
Involuntarily,  she  sighed.  It  was  lonely  to  live  only 
with  the  lovers  she  invented  —  those  splendid  Lance- 
lots and  Galahads  who  wooed  to  her  piping  and 
sinned  or  were  sinless  as  her  mood  ordained.  Some- 
times, perhaps,  she  had  admired  her  own  creations, 
playing  with  imagination ;  had  laughed  a  little,  half 


BABYLON  127 

sadly,  and  longed  a  little,  half  mockingly,  as  she 
pictured  the  strong  arms  and  throbbing  hearts  of 
heroes.  But  this  dark-haired,  silent  man  was  real 
and  personal.  She  liked  him  for  the  strength  that 
he  radiated;  for  the  crimson-threaded  lips  that 
hinted  a  negation  of  strength.  But  chiefly  he  ap- 
pealed to  her  because  his  face  was  cold  and  white, 
and  only  the  eyes  were  fire-lit.  With  a  soft  light 
in  her  own  eyes,  she  said  that  she  would  really  like 
just  one  more  cup  of  tea.  It  was  always  the  extra 
cup  that  she  longed  for.  She  wished  that  every  cup 
could  be  an  extra  cup. 

The  Poet  Who  Had  Wandered  brought  it  to  her, 
and  passed  on  to  join  the  Critic. 

"  Have  you  noticed,"  he  enquired,  "  that  our 
friend  Ward  is  losing  his  indifference  to  the  only 
charming  sex?  " 

The  Critic  shook  his  head.  "  Ward,"  he  said, 
"  has  one  of  those  egoistic,  self-centred  natures 
which  always  distress  me.  He  is  incapable  of  pas- 
sion, as  you  can  readily  perceive  from  his  pallid 
face  and  leucopathic  manner.  He  is  cold-blooded. 
His  only  interest  in  women  is  that  of  a  scientist. 
He  studies  the  feminine  temperament  analytically." 

The  Cynic  had  taken  possession  of  Lord  Daventry 
and  was  coruscating.  But  the  old  man  did  not 
notice  him.  He  was  wondering  whether  it  was  quite 
by  accident  that  his  grandson's  visit  had  coincided 
with  Lady  Winter's. 


CHAPTER   in 

LEVER  men,"  Lady  Winter  said  at  last, 
are  usually  very  uninteresting." 
Ward  answered  almost  automatically. 
"  It  is  only  the  uninteresting  women  who  discover 
interesting  men."  He  realized  that  the  ordinary 
woman  would  have  thrown  her  statement  into  the 
form  of  a  question,  as  a  concession  to  masculine 
crudeness. 

She  considered  for  a  moment.  "  I  must  dispute 
that,  in  self-defence.  But  I  think  it  is  quite  true 
that  only  uninteresting  women  contract  the  habit 
of  discovering  interesting  men.  It  is  a  sign  of  super- 
ficiality. They  demand  novelty.  Strangers  appeal 
to  them,  for  the  moment.  They  admire  everything 
that  they  know  imperfectly.  As  soon  as  they  think 
they  really  comprehend,  they  are  tired.  That  is 
why  so  many  women  have  a  past.  They  are  never 
content  with  the  present  —  always  looking  to  the 
future,  to  the  new  thing,  the  untested.  They  ex- 
periment perpetually  —  and  sometimes  the  experi- 
ment is  fatal." 

"  It  is  then  that  they  become  interesting,"  he 
said. 


BABYLON  129 

"  You  do  not  like  the  naive  woman?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  imply  that.  I  have  noticed 
that  women  are  usually  most  attractive  when  they 
know,  and  when  they  don't  know,  —  quite  frankly. 
When  they  think  they  know,  and  emphasize  their 
sex  by  italicized  hints  about  the  subtlety  and  clever- 
ness of  women  and  the  stupidity  of  men,  they  are 
rather  tiresome  —  to  men.  After  all,  the  greatest 
charm  of  a  woman  is  her  womanhood;  and  that  is 
an  affair  of  nature,  not  of  art  or  artifice." 

"  But  an  uncut  diamond  is  not  brilliant,"  she 
suggested. 

"  Polished  or  unpolished,  diamonds  are  valuable," 
he  said.  "  It  is  the  paste,  the  pretence,  that  one 
regrets.  —  I  did  not  mean  to  use  that  word,  by 
the  way.  One  should  never  regret  anything.  It  is 
a  waste  of  time." 

"  Is  that  a  habit  of  yours  —  to  regret  nothing? 
You  are  able  to  be  consistent?  " 

"  I  try  to  be,"  he  answered.  "  What  is  the  good 
of  regrets?  They  help  nobody;  do  nothing.  Dis- 
card, and  pass  on." 

"  Quite  simple,"  she  said,  without  smiling. 

"  It  is  merely  a  matter  of  practice,"  he  returned. 
"  More  things  are  wrought  by  practice  than  this 
world  dreams  of  —  though  it  is  dreaming  rather 
systematically  nowadays.  Practice  is  only  prayer 
energized,  robbed  of  its  sentimentality,  —  a  stand- 
ing-up  prayer,  instead  of  the  grovelling  borrowed 


130  BABYLON 

from  old  oriental  despotisms  —  the  etiquette  of  ab- 
jectness.  The  stupid  servility  of  the  conventional 
religions  will  have  to  go.  The  Churches  have  been 
preaching  that  God  made  man  in  His  own  image. 
Then  science  was  supposed  to  have  placed  an  in- 
surmountable barrier  between  faith  and  reason  by 
showing  that  the  creation  was  not  instantaneous, 
that  there  were  intermediate  stages.  Of  course,  it 
did  not  erect  any  barrier  at  all,  except  between 
sense  and  nonsense.  But  it  took  some  time  for 
dogma  to  adapt  itself  to  the  new  conditions,  to 
recognize  science  as  an  ally  instead  of  an  enemy. 
Yet  even  now  man  is  supposed  to  grovel  before  his 
divine  likeness.  Knee-worship  is  the  worship  of 
force,  the  propitiation  of  a  possibly  malignant  spirit. 
In  this  age,  it  is  almost  amusing." 

"  And  you  —  ?  "  she  asked.  "  You  never  j  oin  in 
that  —  amusement?  " 

"  I  do  not,"  he  answered.  "  But  several  genera- 
tions of  ancestors  that  insist  on  living  in  this 
crowded  tenement  that  is  commonly  supposed  to  be 
reserved  for  myself  alone,  occasionally  attempt  to 
revive  their  old  customs.  They  were  curious  people, 
giving  their  God  a  portion  of  one-seventh  of  their 
time  and  rendering  unto  Caesar  or  Satan  a  good 
deal  more  than  was  necessary.  They  sometimes  offer 
specious  excuses,  —  make  me  doubtful  for  the  mo- 
ment. It  is  so  easy  to  be  doubtful,  and  so  useless. 
But  I  try  to  knock  commonsense  into  them,  and 


BABYLON  131 

into  myself.  If  they  won't  die  decently  and  perma- 
nently, they  must  be  brought  into  line  with  modern 
views.  It  is  silly  to  have  a  lot  of  ancestors  with 
fixed  weaknesses  trying  to  repeat  their  mistakes  at 
your  expense.  They  must  be  disciplined.  One  can 
never  be  oneself;  for  one  is  always  plural.  But 
one  can  be  the  general  of  one's  myriad  selves.  That 
is  the  nearest  approach  to  individuality  one  can  get 
out  of  the  composite." 

"  Your  approach  seems  to  have  had  the  right 
strength  and  direction,"  she  said.  "  It  has  landed 
you  on  the  green,  —  and  pretty  near  the  hole." 

He  took  up  the  metaphor.  "  Yes,  man  goes 
through  his  life  very  much  as  he  goes  round  the 
links:  so  many  separate  holes  to  be  won  or  lost, 
and  the  complete  game  hanging  in  the  balance ;  top- 
ping his  drive,  slicing,  putting  weakly;  bunkers  to 
avoid,  and  the  water  here  and  there;  discourage- 
ments or  happy  chance,  and  the  luck  of  the  lie,  but 
all  to  be  averaged  and  overcome  by  a  steady,  con- 
sistent game.  It 's  nonsense  to  say  there  's  no  luck 
in  life,  as  we  understand  it.  There  is  luck,  good 
and  bad.  But  it  does  n't  make  much  difference  to 
the  game  as  a  whole.  The  strong  player  comes  out 
all  right,  the  weak  player  tears  up  his  card  and 
lets  his  particular  Bogey  take  the  honours.  But  the 
feeling  when  one  plays  up  to  form  —  the  drive  full 
and  true,  to  the  furthest  inch ;  on  the  green  in  two, 
straight  and  exact,  and  down  with  the  long  putt, 


132  BABYLON 

perfectly  gauged.  I  like  the  phrase,  a  '  fair  green.' 
One  comes  out  of  the  rough  on  to  the  velvet.  And 
not  once  only,  as  the  culmination,  but  repeatedly, 
if  one  is  fit  to  play  the  game  at  all." 

"  But  in  these  days  of  the  survival  of  the  un- 
fittest?  "  she  suggested. 

"  The  loser  pays,"  he  answered. 

"  There  must  be  many  losers,"  she  said. 

"  Too  many,"  he  agreed. 

"  I  have  been  specially  interested  in  the  survival- 
of-the-unfittest  problem,"  she  said.  "  You  see,  I 
am  one  of  the  survivors." 

He  walked  by  her  side,  without  speaking.  His 
pale  face  was  absolutely  calm.  Yet  he  was  obsessed 
by  her  physical  nearness.  Some  influence  flowed 
from  her,  passing  into  his  body  like  a  warm  flood, 
charging  his  whole  being  electrically. 

He  turned  after  a  few  moments,  and  looked  at 
her.  The  heat  of  the  June  day  was  oppressive ;  but 
unveiled,  without  a  parasol,  she  seemed  fearless  of 
the  sun-rays.  The  flush  on  her  cheeks  appeared  to 
come  from  within,  duskily,  rather  than  to  be  ex- 
ternal, superficial.  Her  eyes,  drooping,  slumbrous, 
absorbed  fire  without  returning  it.  She  was  dressed 
entirely  in  white. 

"  One  of  the  survivors,"  she  repeated,  as  if  me- 
chanically, when  he  did  not  speak. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  said. 

They   had  passed   through   the   garden   and   the 


BABYLON  133 

ordered  grounds  and  had  come  to  the  lake,  dark 
and  cool  in  the  sunshine.  Beyond,  were  the  woods, 
with  their  massed  green,  their  large  restfulness,  their 
veiled  tragedy  of  teeming  life  and  unremittent 
slaughter. 

They  sat  down  on  one  of  the  plain  benches. 

She  spoke  after  some  minutes.  "  You  said  you 
knew.  Were  you  quite  —  sure?  " 

"  Quite  sure,"  he  answered,  simply. 

He  noticed  that  she  shivered  slightly.  Then  — 
"  Do  you  remember,"  she  asked,  "  sitting,  some 
months  ago,  by  a  little  pool  and  meditating  for  quite 
a  long  time?  It  was  colder  then,  than  now,  and 
darker." 

He  realized  that  she  was  referring  to  the  occa- 
sion of  his  encounter  with  Harrington,  when  the 
unhappy  man  had  crept  up  from  behind  and  threat- 
ened him  so  fantastically. 

"  I  remember,"  he  said.  He  wondered,  as  he 
had  wondered  at  the  time,  how  much  of  the  scene 
she  had  witnessed,  or  comprehended,  before  she 
came  through  the  gloom  and  spoke  to  her  brother- 
in-law. 

She  answered  his  unspoken  question.  "  You  had 
a  trying  experience  with  James.  I  heard  the  whole 
of  your  conversation.  Of  course,  I  should  not  have 
listened,  and,  of  course,  I  did.  I  admired  your 
composure,  Dr.  Ward.  It  was  my  first  lesson  in 
what  a  man  really  means  by  self-possession,  and  I 


134  BABYLON 

was  interested.  I  wonder  if  you  knew  how  cold  and 
merciless  you  seemed?  " 

"  I  did  not  intend  to  be  merciless.  I  intended 
to  be  just,  and  forgot  to  be  charitable,  or  even 
fair." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  regret  what  you  did,'*  she  said. 
"  A  man  who  can  be  so  quietly  and  brutally  truth- 
ful when  he  believes  that  he  is  in  imminent  danger 
of  a  murderous  attack,  has  no  need  to  apologize. 
You  were  superb." 

"  I  don't  regret,  of  course,"  he  answered.  "  I 
merely  admit  that  I  was  wrong.  But  I  learnt  some- 
thing, —  and  some  day  the  lesson  may  be  useful." 

He  comprehended  that  this  chance  encounter,  with 
its  dramatic  conditions,  had  been  the  first  and  chief 
cause  of  her  interest  in  him.  She  had  seen  him 
display  courage;  she  had  watched  him  acting  as  an 
inexorable  judge  when  the  majority  of  men  would 
have  been  inclined,  perhaps,  to  temporize  and  make 
the  best  of  an  awkward  situation.  It  was  his  cold 
contempt  for  the  man  whom  he  had  condemned  and 
his  disregard  for  any  physical  consequences,  that 
had  attracted  her.  His  change  of  attitude  at  the 
end,  his  revelation  of  a  religious  fervour  that  in 
ordinary  circumstances  would  merely  have  bored  her, 
had  intensified  the  appeal.  She  had  regarded  him, 
evidently,  with  curiosity. 

His  thoughts  arranged  themselves  with  complete 
certainty. 


BABYLON  135 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  this,  I  think,  was  really 
responsible  for  the  peculiar  meeting." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  the  small  gold  pencil, 
with  the  initials  E.  W.,  that  he  had  picked  up. 

"  I  saw  it  on  the  ground  as  I  was  riding  by.  If 
I  had  not  dismounted  to  get  it,  I  should  not  have 
lingered  by  the  pool  and  so  should  not  have  met 
Harrington." 

He  passed  it  to  her.     "  It  is  yours,  I  think?  " 

She  took  it.  "  Yes.  I  wondered  where  I  had  lost 
it.  I  used  to  sit  on  that  old  cracked  bench  some- 
times and  scribble  a  little.  I  suppose  the  pencil 
slipped  out  of  my  hand  while  I  was  dreaming.  It 
is  always  easy  to  lose  things." 

"  May  I  keep  it?  "  he  asked. 

She  gave  it  back  to  him. 

He  sat  looking  out  at  the  lake.  Gradually,  the 
sunshine  seemed  to  fade,  the  day  passed  into  dark- 
ness. Mist  drifted  down  upon  them,  heavy  and 
clinging.  Then  lights  were  lit,  one  by  one. 

"  You  are  very  quiet,"  she  said. 

He  came  back  at  once  from  his  dream.  The  sun 
was  shining,  the  sky  unclouded. 

"  You  seemed  so  far  away,"  she  said. 

"  I  was  very  near  to  you,"  he  answered,  and 
shivered  slightly.  She  noticed  it,  as  he  had  noticed 
her  own  involuntary  movement  before. 

"  What  did  you  see  ?  "  she  asked,  putting  her 
hand  on  his. 


136  BABYLON 

"  Darkness.     And  then  the  lights  were  lit." 
"  And  then?  "  she  persisted. 
"  The  lights  went  out,"  he  said. 
The  pressure  of  her  fingers  seemed  like  wine  of 
music  in  his  blood. 


CHAPTER    IV 

I    WANTED  to  ask  you  a  question,"  she  said. 
"  And  now  you  have  perplexed  me,  with  your 
ideas  about  prayer  and  heredity.     I  do  not 
know  quite  what  you  think." 

"  Nor  do  I,"  he  said.  "  No  one  does.  We  have 
to  find  out,  step  by  step,  what  we  really  think.  It 
is  a  voyage  of  discovery,  sometimes  with  a  catas- 
trophe at  the  end,  —  at  the  very  end,  perhaps,  when 
almost  home.  A  day  more,  and  the  port-lights  will 
shine  through  the  mist  and  the  pilot's  boat  will  put 
out.  But  we  never  see  our  pilot." 

"  Face  to  face,"  she  said. 

He  nodded.     "  But  what  was  the  question?  " 

"  It  was  about  prayer,  the  soul,  God.  You  spoke 
to  James  so  earnestly,  so  surely.  I  thought  you 
were  that  modern  miracle  —  a  Christian  by  convic- 
tion, not  by  inheritance  or  indifference." 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  believe,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  I  believe  in  Christianity,  I  believe  in  prayer,  the 
soul,  God." 

"  Ah !  "  She  seemed  suddenly  nearer  to  him,  as 
if  leaning  on  his  strength. 

"  I  have  told  you  what  I  believe,"  he  went  on, 


188  BABYLON 

slowly.  "  Now  I  will  tell  you  what  I  know.  I 
know  that  Christianity  is  essentially  true.  I  know 
that  Christianity  is  essentially  false.  I  know  that 
man  has  a  soul.  I  know  that  man  has  no  soul.  I 
know  that  God  is.  I  know  that  God  is  not.*' 

"  You  must  explain,"  she  said.  "  How  do  you 
reconcile  such  strange  oppositions  ?  " 

"  I  don't  reconcile  them,"  he  answered.  "  There 
is  no  opposition.  It  is  a  question  of  planes."  He 
took  her  hand,  and  held  it.  "  A  lie  is  only  a  par- 
tial definition  of  the  truth.  There  can  be  no  nega- 
tion without  affirmation.  To  be,  and  not  to  be,  are 
inseparable."  He  smiled.  "  Don't  worry." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"  Read  yourself,"  he  answered.  "  You  are  the 
book  of  the  wisdom  of  all  the  ages." 

She  protested,  groping  futilely.  "  But  you  don't 
help  me ! " 

"  I  am  your  enemy,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Key  and 
lock,  hand  and  harp  —  the  eternal  antagonism." 

"  You  leave  me  drifting  on  the  sea,"  she  said. 

"  I  will  pick  you  up,"  he  answered,  and  took  her 
in  his  arms. 


CHAPTER   V 

"T  FEEL  like  a  child  that  has  been  alone 
J_  ift  the  dark,"  she  said.  "  But  now  the  lights 
are  lit." 

"  They  will  go  out  again,"  he  said. 

"  It  does  n't  matter,"  she  said.  "  I  have  seen 
them  shining." 

"  My  arms  have  been  empty  a  long  time,"  he 
said. 

Yet  it  seemed  to  him  at  the  moment  that  they 
had  always  held  this  smooth  and  supple  body. 

"  It  is  like  coming  home,"  she  said. 

"  Your  room  has  been  kept  for  you  as  you  left 
it,"  he  answered. 

"  I  wish  I  could  remember,"  she  said. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Is  it  not  enough  to  have 
been,  and  to  be?  It  is  not  always  wise  to  remember." 

"  I  want  to  know,"  she  said.  "  I  have  been  try- 
ing to  find  out,  all  my  life;  wondering,  groping, 
making  experiments,  failing.  The  lights  would  not 
shine." 

"  There  was  always  the  darkness,"  he  said. 
"  There  was  rest  in  the  darkness." 

"  There  is  no  rest  in  the  darkness  for  those  who 
have  dreamed  of  light." 


140  BABYLON 

"  Is  it  dreams  that  make  the  light  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  Or  is  there  light  without  dreams  ?  " 

"  Our  eyes  are  different  when  we  dream,"  she 
answered. 

"  For  now  we  see  as  through  a  glass,  darkly," 
he  said.  "  But  there,  face  to  face." 

"  It  is  all  strange  to  me,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
strange.  I  am  strange  to  myself." 

"  We  have  not  always  been  strangers,"  he  said. 

"  But  do  you  remember  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Do  you 
know?  Or  do  you  merely  guess?" 

"  No  one  may  guess  the  riddle  of  the  universe," 
he  answered.  "  But  one  may  remember  —  dreams." 

"  And  you  recall  them  clearly  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  When  the  sleeper  wakens,"  he  answered,  "  he 
remembers  that  he  has  dreamed.  Yet  the  dreams 
may  fade." 

"  Not  all  the  dreams,"  she  said.  "  Surely  some 
remain  vivid  —  for  at  least  a  little  while." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.  "  And  some  remain  vivid 
forever." 

"  You  do  not  tell  me  much,"  she  said. 

"  One  does  not  tell  such  dreams,"  he  answered. 
"  One  re-lives  them.  So,  though  they  may  have 
faded,  they  become  clear  again." 

"And  death?  "  she  asked,  leaning  closely  against 
him. 

"  There  must  be  chapters  in  the  book,"  he 
answered. 


CHAPTER   VI 

SUDDENLY  she  changed. 
"  Are  you  always  serious?  "  she  asked,  and 
laughed.      He   thought   that  her   laugh   was 
like  the  melody  of  silver  bells ;   and  laughed,  himself, 
at  the  unoriginal  image.    Did  lovers  invariably  think 
in  platitudes  and  follow  a  worn  groove? 

"  Why  do  you  laugh?  "  she  asked. 

"  Because  you  did,"  he  answered,  and  went  on, 
continuing  his  own  train  of  thought.  "  But  our 
silences  are  epigrams." 

"  Please  don't  be  epigrammatic,"  she  said.  "  I 
want  to  talk.  But  why  did  you  think  of  silence? 
And  why  did  you  think  of  it  as  epigrammatic?" 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  it  was  foolish  to  think  at 
all.  One  should  not  waste  golden  moments  in  mere 
thinking." 

"That  is  better,"  she  said,  contentedly.  "I 
was  afraid  —  just  a  little  bit  afraid  —  that  you 
might  n't  be  able  to  be  flippant.  I  could  n't  be  al- 
ways in  love  with  a  man  who  was  always  serious. 
There  is  nothing  so  wearing  as  constant  sincerity." 

"  When  the  heart  is  too  full  for  ordinary  earnest- 
ness," he  rejoined,  "  I  think  the  cooking  of  chickens 


142  BABYLON 

is  the  safest  and  most  interesting  topic.  I  once 
heard  two  lovers  at  a  theatre  filling  in  the  intervals 
of  *  Romeo  and  Juliet '  with  most  satisfactory 
chickens.  I  have  forgotten  the  details,  and  can 
remember  only  the  delicate  brown  conclusion." 

"  '  Romeo  and  Juliet '  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  And  perfectly  cooked  chickens." 

"It  was  not  right,"  she  said. 

"  It  was  entirely  appropriate,"  he  affirmed ;  "  the 
triumph  of  mind  over  matter,  of  intellect  over  at- 
mosphere. In  '  Romeo  and  Juliet '  the  lovers  saw 
their  future  destiny.  Between  the  acts,  they  took 
a  brief  vacation  from  destiny.  Destiny  is  very 
irritating  if  one  cannot  escape  from  it." 

"  But  can  one  escape  from  destiny  —  ever  — 
even  for  moments?  " 

"  One  can  escape,"  he  said,  "  by  pretending. 
There  is  a  great  deal  in  pretending.  Sometimes  I 
think  pretence  is  more  real  than  reality." 

"  It  is  more  childlike,"  she  said,  and  went  on : 
"  Children  are  so  wonderful  in  their  power  of  make- 
believe.  It 's  only  one  form  of  the  eternal  creative 
spirit,  I  suppose.  How  beautiful  it  would  be  to 
become  a  child  again,  with  just  the  urge  and  inno- 
cence of  life  —  " 

"  And  no  knowledge  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  One  pays  so  much  for  knowledge,"  she  answered. 

"  But  is  the  price  too  high?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  little   child,"   she  said,  not  answering  him ; 


BABYLON  143 

"  little  hands  in  the  darkness  —  and  a  little  nearer 
to  God  in  His  Heaven  —  " 

"You  remember  Lewis  Carroll?"  he  asked,  look- 
ing at  the  water. 

'  While  little  hands  make  vain  pretence 
Our  wanderings  to  guide.'  " 

"  And  you  remember  Rudyard  Kipling?  "  she  re- 
joined. "  *  If  this  be  vanity,  if  this  be  vanity  — '  " 

"  Vanity  let  it  be,"  he  agreed.  "  I  don't  mind. 
I  am  perfectly  docile." 

"  I  was  n't  thinking,"  she  said,  as  if  he  had  ac- 
cused her,  "  of  the  ordinary  maternal  instinct,  with 
which  so  many  women  are  unjustly  credited.  That 
may  be  useful,  or  banal,  or  beautiful,  as  you  look 
at  it.  But  there  's  something  selfish,  essentially,  in 
the  perpetual  *  my  ' ;  '  my  baby,'  '  my  son,'  *  my 
daughter.'  Why  should  a  mother  love  her  child, 
just  because  it  is  hers?  Why  cannot  she  love  all 
childhood  —  what  a  child  stands  for?  Most  people 
think  there  is  something  specially  beautiful  in  the 
undiscriminating,  unreasoning  love  of  a  mother  for 
her  own  children.  There  is  n't  anything  particu- 
larly beautiful,  unless  the  children  are  the  incar- 
nation of  dreams,  ideals:  unless  they  mean  the  con- 
summation of  great  love;  the  fruition  of  strange, 
shy,  passionate  desires." 

"  Nature  is  considered  beautiful,"  he  said.  "  But 
nature  is  really  clumsy,  uneducated.  She  is  always 


144  BABYLON 

thinking  of  to-morrow,  forgetting  that  to-morrow 
inevitably  becomes  to-day,  and  therefore,  from  na- 
ture's point  of  view,  negligible." 

"To-day!"  she  said;  and  then:  "Oh,  the 
strange,  inevitable,  horrible  transitoriness  of  life; 
the  perpetual  going  on,  with  no  respite  for  rest; 
so  many  days  in  a  human  life  —  an  exact  number, 
ticked  off  remorselessly;  gone  forever.  And  how 
we  waste  them  —  looking  forward  or  back  to  the 
one  day  —  forgetting  the  everlasting  Now !  " 

"  It  is  good  to  go  on,"  he  said.  "  Change  and 
decay  —  it  is  beautiful.  Would  you  change  change  ? 
Imagine  a  world  of  petrified  is.  No  WAS  :  no  TO  BE  : 
just  is." 

"But  if  one  were  happy?"  she  said.  "A  child 
—  forever  —  " 

"In  the  nursery?  "  he  asked. 

"  Life  was  so  simple  and  clear,"  she  said. 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  tragedies  ?  "  he  asked ; 
"the  broken  dolls;  misunderstanding,  injustice, 
unhappiness ;  little  hands  beating  on  a  locked 
door  —  " 

"  That  was  because  of  the  grown-up  world,"  she 
said.  "  Yes,  I  remember  the  locked  door  —  the 
door  that  would  not  open,  so  that  one  might  see 
and  be  seen  —  " 

"  Is  it  not  the  same  now?  "  he  asked.  "  We  are 
the  children  still,  and  we  beat  upon  the  locked  door 
that  shuts  out  from  us  the  great  grown-up  world  — 


BABYLON  145 

angels  and  archangels  and  all  the  glorious  company 
of  Heaven  —  devils  and  vampires  and  the  futile 
ghosts  of  the  night  —  call  them  by  whatever  names 
you  will.  And  we  cannot  find  the  key  to  the  door." 

"Will  it  never  be  opened?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed.  "  Dear,  it  is  not  really  closed.'  But 
it  is  heavy,  and  the  hinges  and  the  catch  are  rusty. 
That  is  the  tragedy  of  all  childhood.  The  *  locked  ' 
door  could  be  swung  open  —  but  the  hands  are  too 
feeble  —  and  so  they  beat  upon  the  panels,  but 
cannot  turn  the  knob." 

She  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  drew  him 
down  to  her.  "  Dear,"  she  said,  "  some  time,  will 
you  open  the  door  for  me  and  let  me  see  what  lies 
beyond?  " 

"Would  you  like  to  see?"  he  asked.  **  You 
would  not  be  afraid  ?  " 

"  I  am  only  afraid  of  the  darkness,"  she  answered. 

"  But  suppose  there  is  darkness  beyond  the 
door?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  would  be  no  worse  than  now,"  she  answered. 
"  No  worse  than  the  darkness  we  know." 

"  You  cannot  be  sure,"  he  said. 

"  Is  there  no  light  to  lighten  the  darkness  ?  "  she 
asked. 

"  There  is  the  light  that  lighteth  the  world,"  he 
said.  "  And  that  light  is  everywhere,  if  we  would 
see  it:  here,  as  there." 

"  Then  there  is  no  door  really  ?  "  she  asked. 


146  BABYLON 

"  The  door  is  only  a  metaphor,"  he  answered. 
"  They  that  have  eyes  to  see,  can  see.  And  the  blind 
are  blind." 

"  Always  ?  "   she   asked. 

"  The  blind  may  be  taught  to  see,"  he  answered. 
"  And  there  are  others  who,  having  eyes,  see  not." 

"  The  light  of  the  world,"  she  murmured. 

He  drew  himself  away  from  her.  "The  sun  is 
setting,"  he  said.  "  Look." 

She  looked  at  the  blood-gold  west:  at  the  cloud- 
fleece,  dripping  crimson. 

"  Is  it  so  late?  "  she  said.  "  I  did  not  know. 
We  have  been  here  a  long  time." 

"  We  shall  be  late  for  dinner,"  he  said,  and 
laughed.  "  Even  Romeo  and  Juliet  must  dine.  You 
see  how  appropriate  the  chickens  were." 

"  You  are  a  curious  man,"  she  said,  gravely.  "  I 
can  hardly  believe  that  all  this  —  has  happened." 

"  It  happened  long  ago,"  he  said,  and  his  lips 
closed  tightly.  "  Come  —  before  it  is  dark  again." 

"  You  give  me  such  a  strange  sense  of  eerieness," 
she  said. 

"  Give  me  your  lips,"  he  said,  bending  down  to 
her  upturned  face.  Passion  leapt  suddenly  from 
him  like  a  flame,  and  she  shivered  in  his  arms;  then 
clung  to  him  for  a  few  moments,  tense,  unrelaxed. 


CHAPTER   VII 

WARD  did  not  attempt  to  control  his 
thoughts  during  the  evening,  except  in  so 
far  as  deliberate  drifting  may  be  called 
control.  He  realized  the  strangeness  and  danger 
of  his  mood,  but  a  chemical  change  seemed  to  have 
taken  place  in  the  constitution  of  his  whole  being: 
the  electricity  of  passion  had  disturbed  and  re- 
energized the  molecular  system.  Except  for  occa- 
sional intervals,  when  a  rift  appeared  in  the  mists 
of  emotion  and  he  emerged  for  a  little  while  into 
clear  self-knowledge,  he  did  not  review  the  events 
of  the  afternoon  connectedly,  or  attempt  to  analyze 
his  conduct.  What  had  happened,  had  happened 
—  not  in  the  few  hours  of  a  summer's  day,  unpre- 
meditated and  unprepared,  but  as  the  inevitable 
sequel  to  a  tale  twice  told.  Glimpses  of  revelation 
came  to  him,  but  provocatively,  leaving  him  still 
unsure  whether  deeds  of  the  past  or  the  future,  or 
his  own  imaginings  of  the  present,  were  flashed  im- 
perfectly on  the  film  of  consciousness.  But  life 
was  no  longer  restricted,  ordered  and  confined;  to 
be  lived  decorously  or  futilely  in  the  space  of  a 
generation.  Time  seemed  to  have  passed  from  the 


148  BABYLON 

limits  of  normal  reckoning:  he  was  scarcely  con- 
scious of  the  long  series  of  divisions,  of  the  shadows 
on  the  dial,  the  separation  of  light  from  darkness. 
Somewhere  on  the  circumference  of  the  unbroken 
circle  he  had  come  again  to  the  eternal  WOMAN. 
His  whole  being  flowed  out  to  her:  habit,  personal- 
ity, will,  were  fluid  in  that  fervent  heat  of  passion. 
Her  eyes,  that  he  had  seen  no  longer  slumbrous ;  her 
caressing  voice;  her  blood-warm  lips,  her  smooth 
and  supple  body;  were  woven  into  his  fermenting 
brain,  warp  and  woof  of  dreams  dyed  with  desire. 
So  long  the  vanities  of  pleasure  had  been  blotted 
by  sleep,  or  revived,  disowned,  and  clutched  again 
through  hours  of  restlessness.  Surely  now  he  might 
take  his  ease,  forgetting  the  task  and  the  taskmaster, 
drinking  the  ancient  wine,  following  the  ancient  lure ! 

Yet,  driven  as  he  was  by  the  impulses  of  fever, 
his  manner,  through  long  habit,  was  so  restrained, 
and  the  pallor  of  his  face,  crowned  with  its  con- 
trasting jet-black  hair,  so  secretive  of  emotion,  that 
even  the  Greatest  Living  Novelist  did  not  realize  the 
storm  within.  Lord  Daventry  alone  had  coded  the 
signals  of  the  hot,  unresting  eyes,  always,  before, 
so  steadfast  and  serene:  and  the  old  man  did  not 
waste  the  opportunity  for  a  mocking  gibe. 

"  So  our  Samson,  so  strong  in  his  purity,  has 
found  at  last  the  beguiling  Delilah?  Eh?  No 
longer  is  John  numbered  with  the  saints:  his  place 
is  with  the  sinners  —  and  particularly  with  the 


BABYLON  149 

pretty  sinners.  Did  not  Antony  fling  away  the 
world  for  a  few  embraces?  And  a  greater  than 
Cleopatra  is  here.  Our  modern  Roman  changes  the 
letter,  but  preserves  the  spirit,  of  that  sublime  re- 
nunciation: not  for  the  world  would  he  fling  away 
an  embrace.  This  is  eminently  a  Christian  attitude. 
Love  one  another.  Good-night." 

Ward  went  on  to  his  room,  slowly.  It  was  some 
time  before  he  undressed.  Then,  in  his  white  sleep- 
ing suit,  he  stood  by  the  open  window,  watching 
the  clear  light  of  the  full  moon,  which  revealed 
no  lure  of  intoxication.  Something  of  the  paganry 
that  dwells  in  men  responded  to  that  serene  glamour. 
It  was  Diana  herself,  chaste  and  unpassionate,  who 
diffused  her  cold  and  indifferent  beauty  through 
cold  and  indifferent  space :  that  mortality  might  see, 
and  seeing,  worship,  the  superb  supremacy  of  the 
divine.  In  a  moment,  reason  rejected  this  separa- 
tion of  the  ruled  from  the  regal,  of  the  evanescent 
from  the  eternal.  Man  is  but  a  mood  of  his  Maker ; 
the  creature  of  a  day  symbolizes  the  eternal  Crea- 
tor. If  passion  be  human,  it  is  also  of  God:  the 
love  that  carries  a  man  utterly  beyond  himself,  lift- 
ing him  to  a  plane  unscalable  without  those  wings 
of  phantasy,  is  assuredly  but  one  of  the  letters  in 
the  divine  alphabet,  upon  which  is  based  the  lan- 
guage of  the  immortals. 

He  turned  away.  His  whole  being  throbbed  with 
a  sense  of  requirement,  of  an  urgent  need.  Merely 


150  BABYLON 

to  rest,  to  be  placid  and  still,  was  impossible.  He 
was  aware  of  a  continued,  imperious  call,  as  from 
a  summer  sun  to  an  immured  prisoner.  He  must 
strain  toward  the  light  — 

The  spiritual  wanderlust  which  he  had  governed 
harshly  and  kept  in  check,  asserted  its  compelling 
authority.  He  must  go  out  from  his  narrow  world 
of  self-restraint  and  ordered  limits,  into  the  large 
world  of  romance  and  dreams.  After  all,  life  was 
very  brief,  at  the  best,  and  little  in  its  scope  and 
possibilities:  sordid  for  so  many,  pleasant  only  for 
those  children  or  masters  of  chance  who  lived  with- 
out scruples,  but  not  without  love,  wresting  from 
each  day  the  maximum  of  indulgence.  Surely  they 
were  wise  in  their  generation  and  hour,  plucking 
with  both  hands  the  fruits  which  to  the  undaring 
became  tortures  of  Tantalus!  And  the  dead  — 
well,  who  knew?  There  was  much  babble,  but  little 
logic.  All  the  creeds  and  all  the  dreams  of  the 
world  were  founded  on  that  demand  for  faith  which 
means  merely  the  suppression  of  judicial  discern- 
ing enquiry.  Could  a  reasonable  belief  be  based 
on  the  negation  of  reason?  So  far  as  knowledge 
went,  each  human  being  ended  with  the  final  heart- 
beat, and  was  very  silent  in  the  grave.  Where  was 
the  soul,  the  boasted  reality  of  a  man,  during  the 
oblivion  of  profound  slumber?  How  could  that 
spirit,  whose  heritage  was  to  range  the  uttermost 
bounds  of  the  universe,  be  chained  to  an  inert  body, 


BABYLON  151 

which  could  destroy  all  apparent  consciousness  in 
its  mimicry  of  death?  He  had  sometimes  operated 
in  an  almost  hopeless  case,  and  seen,  when  fears 
were  confirmed,  the  approach  of  dissolution.  It 
was  strange  that  that  last,  almost  indistinguishable 
flutter  should  release  the  soul  from  the  utter  blank- 
ness  of  the  anaesthetic,  and  endow  it  with  instant 
recognition.  Very  wise  the  soul  must  be,  to  know 
the  precise  fraction  of  time  when  it  must  cease  to 
merge  itself  in  the  disintegrating  structure  which 
for  minutes  or  for  hours  had  been  impotent  and 
unresponsive.  Perhaps  the  failure  of  the  heart  was 
not  the  necessary  signal:  the  spirit  might  linger, 
dutiful  and  unrecorded,  till  the  last  brain-cell  was 
atrophied,  the  last  particle  of  tissue  shrivelled,  the 
last  corpuscle,  sad  and  lonely,  sacrificed  to  fate.  He 
laughed.  Yes,  death,  with  its  promised  magnifi- 
cence, was  a  dubious  reward  for  the  self-denial  and 
thwarted  instincts  of  a  lonely  life.  Better  to  grasp 
what  was  tangible,  to  hold  gladly  the  only  delights 
that  consciousness  might  know,  than  to  wait  aus- 
terely for  a  development  which  ended,  perhaps,  with 
the  subterranean  empire  of  the  crawling,  unwitting 
worm.  Eat,  drink  and  be  merry:  for  to-morrow, 
man  dies.  Eat  forbidden  fruits,  drink  the  wine  of 
passion,  be  merry  with  the  gladness  and  abandon- 
ment of  sin.  For  what  was  sin,  but  the  natural 
indulgence  proscribed  by  those  harsh  and  gloomy 
ones  whose  aborted  instincts  could  not  comprehend 


152  BABYLON 

the  joy  of  a  full,  free  life?  Better  to  adventure  in 
that  happier  world  of  light,  than  to  linger  impris- 
oned in  the  darkness,  useless,  unthanked  and  un- 
rewarded. Life  was  very  short:  it  were  wiser  to 
make  the  most  of  it,  and  trust  scantly  in  the  delu- 
siveness of  death. 

For  a  moment,  the  mist  lifted.  How  could  he 
reconcile  his  own  strange  experiences,  his  actual 
knowledge,  with  these  idle  suggestions?  Verily,  the 
worm  had  his  moment  of  outward  triumph,  and  the 
earth  took  again  her  wayward  children,  dust  to 
dust  and  ashes  to  ashes.  The  ritual  must  be  ob- 
served ;  there  must  be  a  conclusion  for  each  chapter 
of  the  book,  and  the  turning  to  a  new  page:  but 
when  should  the  final  FINIS  be  written? 

The  attempt  to  think  connectedly  irked  him. 
Deliberately,  he  yielded  again  to  the  mood  of  mad- 
ness. The  checked  cravings  of  many  days  and 
nights,  scattered  impressions  of  broken  reveries,  were 
gathered  together  and  woven  into  an  orgy  of  sen- 
suous imaginings.  He  threw  himself  on  his  bed  and, 
with  his  eyes  closed,  abandoned  himself  to  the  al- 
lurement of  waking  dreams.  Images,  vivid  and  real, 
passed  or  lingered.  Faces,  changing  yet  the  same, 
came  very  close  to  him:  smiling,  provocative,  or 
wondering,  unsure.  Crimson  lips  repeated  the  chal- 
lenge of  questioning  glances  .  .  .  The  soft  curve  of 
the  mouth  was  like  a  child's,  but  there  was  knowl- 
edge in  the  mocking  violet  eyes  — 


BABYLON  153 

A  faint  flush  tinged  his  cheeks.  He  stretched 
out  his  arms.  His  lips  moved  to  the  crimson  curve, 
his  eyes  returned  the  wilful  temptation  of  those 
which  burnt  their  challenge  into  the  rioting  brain  — 

He  sat  up,  suddenly,  tortured  by  this  vivid  im- 
agery. Slipping  from  the  bed,  he  went  again  to 
the  window. 

The  cold,  clear  light  of  the  moon  neither  bewil- 
dered nor  assisted  him.  He  had  passed  too  far 
beyond  the  border  line  of  reason  and  unreason: 
the  thrall  of  passion  held  him;  freedom  would  have 
seemed  intolerable.  Not  the  voice  and  the  magic 
of  one  summer  only  wrought  alchemy  in  blood  and 
nerves  and  soft  grey  matter  of  the  brain:  the 
voices  of  many  summers,  heard  but  shunned  in  their 
proper  order,  now  forced  their  way  imperiously  to 
an  audience. 

He  knew  that  this  was  not  a  mere  abrupt  inva- 
sion: it  was  the  sequel  to  those  moments  when  he 
had  half  yielded  in  thought  to  the  allurement  of  sex 
and  beauty  —  not  the  beauty  of  a  known  individual, 
but  of  one  yet  unmet,  built  up  vaguely  by  hints 
from  the  actual.  The  faces  which  had  so  often 
fluttered  to  him  before  sleep;  his  habit  of  noticing 
any  special  charm  in  those  whom  he  met  constantly 
or  rarely;  his  perception  of  the  redeeming  feature 
even  in  ugliness  —  the  single  perfect  curve,  the 
moulding  of  a  lip,  the  transformation  of  a  smile  — 
all,  he  realized,  pointed  to  one  persisting  tendency 


154  BABYLON 

of  character.  Sensuousness  was  in  him:  rooted  in 
his  nature,  it  had  grown  with  his  growth,  estab- 
lishing itself  impregnably. 

The  sheen  of  silver  light  flickered  in  the  air.  The 
glamour  and  witchery  of  the  moon  had  come 
to  their  full  power.  Twenty  centuries  fell  from 
him.  Pagan  again,  he  watched  Aphrodite  rising 
from  the  sea;  bowed  down  to  her  and  worshipped, 
with  the  lurking  smile  of  the  sceptic  for  divinity, 
but  the  ardour  of  the  lover  for  incarnate  loveliness. 
He  saw  again  Greek  groves  and  Syrian  shrines: 
girls  danced,  or  waited  with  lit  eyes  for  one  who 
should  come  in  Ishtar's  name.  He  caught  the  gleam 
of  argent  limbs ;  visualized  the  curves  — 

His  grandfather,  gibing,  had  mentioned  Antony. 
Yes,  Antony,  master  of  half  the  world,  had  flung 
away  that  empire  for  the  slavery  of  passion.  Well, 
he  would  fling  away  a  wider  lordship.  He  had  been 
master  of  himself.  He  surrendered  that  sovereignty. 

Surely  the  woman  whom  he  desired  inherited  the 
magic  of  the  superb  Egyptian !  Her  very  body, 
with  its  lithe  loveliness ;  the  fashioning  of  the  beau- 
tiful face;  the  luring,  fathomless  eyes,  the  clear 
voice,  with  its  caress,  its  hint  of  coldness,  —  all 
were  part  of  his  conception  of  the  queen  of  kings 
of  kings. 

The  colours  of  the  Orient  were  in  her  name  — 
gold,  and  turquoise,  and  pearl.  He  imaged  her, 
diademed  and  robed,  with  jewels  blazing  round  the 


BABYLON  155 

whiteness  of  her  throat.  Then,  denuding  her  in 
fancy  of  crown  and  royal  vesture,  of  jewels  and 
impersonal  magnificence,  he  saw  her  as  she  was: 
beauty,  desire,  glamour,  —  woman.  He  stretched 
out  his  arms:  if  only  she  could  come  to  him  — 

He  wandered  to  and  fro,  feverishly.  The  inten- 
sity of  his  desire  appalled  him.  His  whole  nature, 
fermenting,  seemed  to  expand  to  its  supreme  limits, 
and  project  itself,  calling  for  her,  claiming  her,  with 
a  force  savage  and  irresistible.  Shaken  by  this  vio- 
lence, perplexed  and  unstrung,  he  fell  on  his  knees 
by  the  bedside,  covering  his  face.  It  was  thus  that 
he  had  been  taught,  in  his  childhood,  to  approach 
God;  it  was  thus  that  he  had  tried,  in  his  man- 
hood, to  approach  the  child.  Something  of  the 
quietude  associated  even  with  automatic  habits  that 
once  had  a  spiritual  significance,  came  to  him  now. 
And  suddenly,  in  that  momentary  stillness,  the  in- 
explicable prevision  with  which  he  was  familiar,  the 
awareness  of  an  approaching  event,  struck  him  like 
a  wave  of  cold  light.  He  raised  his  head.  Still 
kneeling,  in  the  attitude,  though  not  the  act,  of 
prayer,  he  watched,  with  dilated  eyes,  the  closed 
door,  which  seemed  to  quiver  in  the  flickering 
moonbeams. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

MATTER,  the  puzzle  of  the  ages,  is  still  an 
enigma;  and  to  the  Sage,  who  is  aware  of 
his  great  ignorance  and  of  the  wonderful 
complexity  of  life's  most  familiar  details,  spirit  also 
remains  uncharted,  undiscovered.  He  has  heard 
rumours  with  regard  to  it;  fables  and  fairy  tales, 
often  prettily  attractive,  sometimes  astonishing. 
But  while  many  explorers  are  searching  for  an 
island  in  some  Pacific  Ocean  of  smooth  hours,  an 
island  of  rest,  perhaps,  and  unfretted  ease,  the  Sage 
meditates  upon  the  chance  of  a  continent  at  the 
poles  of  time  —  vast,  mysterious ;  swept  by  winter 
storms,  sunlit  through  summers;  barriered,  but  not 
impenetrable. 

Man  is  still  young,  but  little  by  little,  line  by 
line,  he  has  added  to  his  strength  and  equipment, 
and  the  gain  of  centuries  is  duplicated  with  ease  in 
single  years.  Soon,  he  will  recognize  the  miracle 
in  each  mole-hill,  the  simplicity  of  each  mountain. 
He  will  outgrow  the  necessity  for  noise,  and  will 
talk  with  thoughts,  tossed  from  brain  to  brain. 
Uncircumscribed,  he  will  traverse  the  future  as 
freely  as  the  past.  Prophecy  will  become  intelligent 


BABYLON  157 

observation.  There  will  be  no  bewilderment,  no 
surprises.  In  the  atmosphere  of  knowledge,  he  will 
learn  to  live  serenely.  And  passion  will  die. 

Ward  rose  at  last  to  his  feet.  The  pallor  of  his 
face  had  gone;  the  faint  tinge  had  deepened  till 
a  dull  glow  suffused  the  cheeks.  The  certainty  that 
was  in  him  swept  through  the  veins  like  fire.  Every 
particle  of  his  body  tingled  with  intense  vitality; 
the  sense  of  supreme  power  thrilled  through  him. 
The  drabness  of  ordered,  conventional  routine  was 
fused  in  the  white  heat  of  passion;  feeling,  that 
usually  smouldered  and  flickered,  had  flamed  into 
incandescence.  Even  to  touch  her  hands,  to  feel 
the  fire  pass  from  him  into  that  smooth,  velvet  flesh 
—  the  thought  was  like  wine  to  him.  His  eyes 
shone.  Sensibility  seemed  to  have  reached  its  highest 
point.  Through  all  the  years  of  strength  and  self- 
control,  this  perfection  of  energy  had  been  unreal- 
ized, unimagined. 

The  changed  details  of  the  room  suddenly  stamped 
themselves  upon  consciousness.  In  the  days  when 
it  had  been  his  own,  he  had  kept  it  unlittered  and 
scantily  furnished:  confusion  in  environment,  as  in 
thought  and  habit,  was  repugnant  to  him;  and 
he  had  carried  simplicity  to  the  point  of  severity. 
There  had  been  a  bed,  a  writing-table,  two  chairs, 
and  a  wardrobe:  a  few  books  were  in  a  rack  on 
the  table.  A  Kabistan  rug,  and  two  or  three  prints 


158  BABYLON 

on  the  panelled  walls,  completed  the  equipment. 
Yet  the  place  had  been  charged  with  his  personality. 
The  bareness,  the  contemptuous  indifference  to  com- 
fort revealed  in  the  hard,  uncushioned  chairs,  the 
absence  of  knick-knacks,  bric-a-brac  and  colours, 
seemed  harshly  masculine.  But  now,  though  the 
room  had  been  rearranged  for  his  occupation,  there 
were  evidences  of  another  and  less  austere  influence. 
A  cushioned  couch  had  been  added,  and  a  dressing- 
table;  the  small  bed  had  been  replaced  by  a  large 
one;  the  floor  had  been  carpeted;  and  instead  of 
the  plain  chairs  there  were  others,  daintily  uphol- 
stered and  quaintly  designed.  A  Japanese  screen 
was  in  one  corner,  and  a  cheval  mirror  stood 
obliquely  by  the  door  communicating  with  the  next 
room.  It  was  so  placed  that  it  reflected  the  other 
door,  opening  on  to  the  landing. 

The  femininity  of  the  place,  contrasted  with  the 
starkness  that  he  had  impressed  upon  it  in  other 
days,  seemed  strange  to  him.  Curiously,  in  spite 
of  his  surrender  to  passion,  it  irked  him.  While 
an  indescribable  tenderness  flowed  from  him  toward 
the  woman  whom  he  desired,  he  was  impatient  of 
effeminate  surroundings.  He  looked  at  the  mirror, 
half  curiously,  half  resentfully.  It  was  before  such 
things  that  idle  women  spent  so  many  hours.  And 
yet,  why  not?  If  a  woman  were  beautiful,  surely 
she  should  share  the  pleasure  that  she  gave?  If 
she  were  not  beautiful,  it  was  her  mere  duty  to  make 


BABYLON  159 

herself  as  attractive  as  possible.  Slovenliness  in 
appearance,  as  in  speech  or  manner,  was  a  crime 
against  the  sex  which  preserved  in  a  decadent  age 
some  ideal  of  loveliness.  Yet  a  greater  offence  was 
the  slovenliness  of  emotion  that  characterized  so 
many  women,  shallow,  and  unaware  of  their  shallow- 
ness  ;  living  on  the  surface  of  life,  and  whether 
content  or  querulous,  not  realizing  the  depths  that 
should  be  sounded,  the  wonderful  possibilities  of 
their  own  natures,  glimpsed  only  intuitively  when 
the  unconscious  self  pressed  forward,  and  surren- 
dered without  effort.  But  when  to  the  charm  of 
the  body  was  added  the  appeal  of  a  subtle,  com- 
prehending mind ;  when  the  music  of  a  low  voice  and 
the  unveiled  desire  of  violet  eyes  completed  the 
allurement  of  a  perfectly  moulded  form  —  then  man, 
egoistic  and  still  savage,  yet  raised  in  a  dream  to 
the  stature  of  the  gods,  fulfilled  himself  in  passion, 
calling  one  woman  goddess,  even  while  they  sinned 
together.  For  this  is  the  tradition  of  the  race. 
So,  in  the  beginning  of  myths,  Aphrodite,  first  of 
women  to  discard  mere  functioning,  first  to  reveal 
the  magic  of  soft  lips  and  clinging  arms,  was  re- 
warded with  an  immortal  crown  and  a  divine  throne. 
In  the  same  spirit  of  appreciation,  modern  man 
makes  his  offerings  of  coronets,  tiaras  and  auto- 
mobiles to  the  Venus  who  rises  from  the  swaying 
waves  of  the  ballet  —  those  rhythmic  billows,  lucent 
with  legs,  crested  with  foam  of  snowy  lingerie. 


160  BABYLON 

"  Dear  God,"  he  said,  aloud,  "  fragments  and 
follies  —  beauty  and  the  beast  —  so  the  mind 
wanders ! " 

He  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  not  deliberately, 
but  drifting  with  the  tide  of  emotions.  Above,  the 
blue  sky  seemed  to  open,  cloudless,  quivering  with 
light.  Half-hypnotized,  unaware  of  reality,  he 
gazed  into  the  mirror,  as  into  a  limitless  sea  from 
which  loveliness  should  emerge.  And  as  he  looked* 
shaken  by  desire,  and  with  will  and  instinct  joining 
in  an  insistent,  irresistible  demand,  he  saw  the  re- 
flected door  move  slowly  toward  him.  And  so  she 
came  to  him,  in  the  glass,  at  first  darkly. 


CHAPTER    IX 

LORD  DAVENTRY,  in  his  room  at  the  end 
of  the  corridor,  was  restless.  Philpotts  had 
prepared  him  for  the  ordeal  of  sleep,  and 
had  retired  silently;  but  the  old  man  sat  in  his 
easy  chair,  his  arms  folded,  his  head  bent  down. 

"  When  we  are  young,"  he  reflected,  "  we  waste 
one-third  of  our  time  in  bed  —  when  we  should  be 
living.  And  the  Golden  Age  passes,  and  we  waste 
two-thirds  of  our  time  in  trying  to  live,  when  desire 
is  dead  and  oblivion  is  the  only  appropriate  refuge. 
But  sleep  eludes  us." 

Sombrely,  he  watched  the  parade  of  ghosts  pass- 
ing and  repassing:  dead  friends,  women  and  men; 
dead  loves  and  hatreds ;  pleasures,  follies,  successes, 
failures:  the  good  and  evil  of  life,  reduced  to  the 
lowest  common  denominator  —  irrevocability. 

"  But  the  young  have  also  their  ghosts,"  he  said, 
addressing  a  shape  that  looked  at  him  question- 
ingly.  "  Yes,  dear  self,  so  brave  with  youth,  you 
peered  sometimes  into  the  future,  and  you  saw  — 
This.  For  us,  the  old,  the  superfluous  laggards  on 
the  stage,  there  remains  only  the  past.  You  are 
our  ghosts,  as  we  were  yours." 

He  raised  his  head  after  a  little  while  and  looked 


162  BABYLON 

at  the  moonlight  streaming  through  the  white  cur- 
tains. He  regarded  it  at  first  quietly,  inscrutably: 
then  his  lips  twitched. 

"  True,"  he  said.  "  Very  true.  The  perpetual 
philosopher.  Moonshine  —  and  the  night."  He 
nodded  to  the  ghosts.  "  We  had  a  devilish  good 
time,"  he  said.  "  And  what  we  have  had,  we  have." 
He  laughed  —  a  thin,  cracked  laugh.  "  One  can- 
not hold  moonshine  —  but  it  comes  from  the 
heavens." 

The  parade  had  passed  on.  Now,  in  the  moon- 
light, faces  and  forms  seemed  pallid  and  pain-weary. 
The  old  man  watched  them,  nodding  from  time  to 
time  as  a  familiar  figure  evoked  special  memories. 
His  own  face  seemed  furrowed  and  sunken,  and  his 
eyes  lustreless. 

"  On  the  third  day  he  descended  into  hell,"  he 
murmured.  "  Even  the  sons  of  God  must  pay  the 
penalty.  And  we,  the  sons  of  women  and  men  — 
how  can  we  escape  ?  " 

A  girl's  eyes  challenged  him.  In  the  distorting 
glitter,  she  was  still  beautiful;  but  wilful,  provoca- 
tive. He  watched  her,  impersonally. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  what  is  the  good  ?  You 
are  quite  dead.  We  played  the  universal  game  — 
and  you  lost.  But  you  know  perfectly  well  that 
I  did  n't  win.  Why  give  yourself  the  trouble  of  a 
futile  resurrection?  After  all,  you  had  your  mo- 
ments, child,  as  well  as  I.  Why  do  you  worry  me?  " 


BABYLON  163 

He  stood  up,  with  a  gesture  of  dismissal.  "  I  re- 
fuse to  be  worried.  I  have  grown  old.  Is  n't  that 
enough?  Bloodless,  passionless,  useless.  Go  and 
haunt  the  young,  to  whom  life  is  still  an  illusion, 
love  a  mystery,  woman  an  enigma,  and  sleep  a 
peaceful  refreshment.  The  young,  who  have  yet  to 
grow  old ;  to  pass  the  milestones  —  and  come  to  the 
millstones."  He  checked  himself.  "  From  soliloquy 
to  senility,"  he  sneered.  "  Moonshine  for  limelight, 
ghosts  for  audience,  —  and  the  curtain  waiting." 

His  ears,  preternaturally  acute,  caught  some  faint 
sound.  He  turned,  listening  intently;  then  moved 
toward  the  door,  opened  it,  and  looked  down  the 
corridor.  Slowly,  he  relaxed:  a  faint  smile  flick- 
ered over  his  lips,  leaving  his  eyes  cold  and  metallic. 

"  I  thought  my  old  instinct  had  not  deceived  me," 
he  murmured.  "  Surely  I  should  be  familiar  with 
the  turning  of  keys  —  at  midnight."  He  began  to 
walk  down  the  corridor,  slowly.  The  third  door 
was  closing  as  he  came  to  it.  He  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  white  arm,  of  a  clinging  gown,  lace-edged.  He 
went  on  until  he  came  to  his  grandson's  room.  He 
listened  for  a  little  while,  and  then  came  back. 
Thoughtlessly,  he  left  the  door  of  his  room  open, 
and  with  the  light  full  on,  sat  in  his  chair,  facing 
the  corridor.  So,  a  strange  sentinel  —  like  a  cari- 
cature of  his  daily  Philpotted  self  —  he  watched 
for  two  hours,  muttering  from  time  to  time,  gibing, 
sneering,  until  he  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER    X 

GAZING  into  the  mirror,  Ward  saw  the  door 
swing  back  noiselessly  when  she  released  it. 
He  noticed  that  her  eyelids  drooped,  that  her 
face  had  the  remoteness  of  sleep.  Her  feet,  un- 
slippered,  bare,  arrested  his  glance:  they  seemed 
so  little,  so  fragile  — 

She  took  a  few  steps ;  then  stopped,  as  if  in 
doubt.  Slowly,  she  stretched  out  her  arms,  with  a 
vague,  questing  movement,  that  seemed  to  hold  both 
invitation  and  entreaty.  As  she  stood  thus,  beau- 
tiful but  pallid  in  the  silver  light,  Ward  turned 
from  the  mirror  and  gazed  at  her  directly.  For 
the  first  time  he  realized  that  she  wore  only  her 
sleeping  robe,  a  film  of  diaphanous  lace  and  soft 
whiteness  — 

He  did  not  move,  for  a  sense  of  unreality  was 
creeping  over  him.  It  seemed  that  what  was  hap- 
pening was  a  reflex  of  the  past,  or  a  foreshadowing 
of  the  future.  The  present  was  formless,  negligible. 
Hours  were  minutes ;  minutes  hours.  He  could  keep 
no  reckoning.  His  eyes  became  dim  as  he  looked 
at  her,  shadowed  as  by  a  curtain,  and  at  last  he 
turned  again  to  the  mirror,  as  if  her  reflection  must 
linger  there. 


BABYLON  165 

He  found  himself  in  a  strange  room,  yet  he  did 
not  remember  moving.  She  was  asleep.  He  bent 
down,  that  her  breath  might  come  to  him  as  a 
caress.  It  seemed  very  wonderful  that  she  was 
there,  sleeping  in  his  room  —  as  a  wife  might  sleep. 
His  thoughts  ran  on,  automatically.  Her  body  was 
very  beautiful.  Strange  that  such  magic  should 
lie  in  supple  whiteness,  that  curves  and  soft  mould- 
ings should  hold  an  appeal  so  imperious  that  it 
became  painful.  In  all  passion,  however  carnal  and 
degraded,  lurked  some  distillation  of  the  ideal,  some 
faint  perfume  of  poetry:  and  with  this  distillation, 
this  perfume,  sadness  lingered,  inseparable  from  the 
joy.  And  as  passion  became  less  savage  and  more 
sensuous,  the  pain  increased  with  the  fineness  of  the 
pleasure.  Many  a  poet  had  drowned  his  inspiration 
in  wine,  that  he  might  no  longer  rack  his  heart 
with  the  sorrow  of  splendid  dreams. 

The  scene  allured  and  saddened  him.  It  was  to 
such  visions  that  multitudes  of  men  came  night  by 
night  —  men,  perhaps,  indifferent  and  cold,  satiated 
with  beauty  that  had  become  too  familiar,  with 
caresses  that  no  longer  inflamed,  with  surrender  that 
had  lost  its  magic  and  drifted  into  the  colourless- 
ness of  a  function.  The  average  husband  was  very 
banal  and  incompetent;  yet,  as  a  rule,  the  wife  was 
not  free  from  fault.  For  though  a  man  may  for-1 
get,  in  the  careless  revelations  of  marriage,  the 
courtesy  and  graciousness  of  sweetheart  days,  it  is 


166  BABYLON 

too  often  because  the  woman  has  forfeited  her  right 
to  be  idealized.  Limited  and  imperfect,  she  has 
allowed  herself  to  be  known,  and  when  she  is  known, 
she  ceases  at  once  to  attract.  Man  always  clothes 
with  his  dreams  the  woman  whom  he  thinks  he  loves. 
As  soon  as  he  is  disillusioned  and  flung  back  into 
the  drabness  of  reality,  love  dies  and  the  siren  of  his 
imagining  becomes  an  incubus,  to  be  endured  and 
resented.  A  wife  should  never  allow  herself  to  be 
known:  always  there  should  be  something  in  her 
femininity  that  refuses  to  be  analyzed,  some  power  of 
purity  or  passion,  of  supreme  subtlety  or  supreme 
simplicity,  that  continues  vital  and  enthralling. 

A  wife!  The  word  which  he  had  repeated  in  his 
thoughts  now  struck  a  sudden  chord  of  unrest.' 
The  association  was  incongruous.  This  overwhelm-' 
ing,  flaming  madness  was  remote  from  wifehood, 
with  its  joyous  but  sane  love,  its  serene  intimacy, 
its  adjustment  to  the  daily,  normal  details  of  life, 
and  the  larger  purposes  of  the  race  and  the  species: 
Marriage,  conceived,  perhaps,  in  a  mood,  is  com- 
pleted in  a  mould.  The  wisdom  of  the  world,  no 
less  than  the  sorrow  of  the  world,  is  inwoven  with 
that  enduring  convention.  But  passion  cannot  be 
caged.  Column  of  smoke,  or  pillar  of  fire,  it  lures 
on  the  Chosen  People  —  the  mad,  the  strong,  the 
lovers  of  love  —  till  they  come  at  last  to  the  Prom- 
ised Land  —  and  find  their  living  waters  in  the 
sullen  Dead  Sea. 


BABYLON  167 

It  was  a  woman,  not  a  wife,  whom  he  had  coveted 
and  still  craved  —  a  woman  with  red  lips  whose 
sweetness  should  be  crushed  with  kisses  —  And  she 
had  come  to  him,  dreaming,  and  drawn  by  his  need 
for  her,  by  his  savage,  irresistible  appeal.  Why 
should  he  not  take  this  gift  that  the  night,  and  the 
power  of  the  night,  had  brought  to  him?  Life 
was  such  a  little  thing,  time  so  slight,  yet  sinister 
in  its  ceaseless,  inexorable  retreat.  TO-MORROW  was 
for  fools,  serfs  of  creeds,  cowards  shunning  in  panic 
the  gifts  that  destiny  can  offer  only  once.  Now 
was  for  those  who  would  live  indeed  before  death 
gripped  them  and  they  passed  into  the  darkness. 

All  the  tendencies  that  were  in  him  —  the  souls 
of  the  dead  through  whom  he  lived  —  ranged  them- 
selves as  in  hostile  armies,  the  savage  and  sensuous, 
the  serene  and  spiritual.  Tentacles,  tipped  with 
flame,  plucked  at  his  heartstrings,  searing  them. 

And  suddenly,  reflection  passed  from  him.  He 
no  longer  reached  out  from  his  cage  of  emotions, 
clutching  at  vague  thoughts,  reminiscences  of  old 
habits.  The  room  was  darkened,  and  he  stayed  in 
the  darkness.  Yet,  projected  from  some  storehouse 
of  subconsciousness,  moving  pictures  floated  before 
his  eyes;  pictures  at  first  strange  and  unfamiliar, 
yet  soon  recognized  and  placed  in  their  order  of 
succession.  He  stood,  rigid,  watching,  as  the  pano- 
rama passed.  And  at  last  there  were  no  more 
pictures.  He  was  buried  in  intense  darkness, 


168  BABYLON 

through  which  came  only  a  sound  of  breathing. 
He  listened,  until  the  rhythm  seemed  intolerable. 
He  began  to  move  forward,  stealthily,  with  clenched 
hands. 

He  did  not  know  how  long  it  was  before  the 
darkness  lifted.  He  was  trembling  excessively. 
Averting  his  eyes  from  the  bed,  he  listened  for  the 
sound  of  a  woman  breathing.  He  could  hear 
nothing. 

And  so,  interminably,  he  waited,  with  the  terrible 
feeling  of  one  who  is  lost  in  a  jungle  of  centuries, 
through  which  no  clear  path  is  discoverable.  And 
the  spirit  of  the  jungle  haunted  him,  threateningly, 
mockingly.  He  dreamed  of  monstrous  violence,  of 
irrevocable  deeds  hidden  in  the  darkness  beyond  the 
light,  waiting  for  the  light  to  spread  and  discover 
them  to  the  knowledge  of  men. 


CHAPTER    XI 

IN  the  early  hours  of  a  clear  summer  morning, 
the  night,  with  its  illusions,  its  melancholy,  or 
its  brief  exaltation,  seems  remote  from  experi- 
ence,  a  phantasma  dissolved  in  its   own  unreality. 
The  freshness   of  the  air,   the   soft  warmth  of  the 
sun,   have  the   glamour   of  things   that  are  young. 
The  day   is   still  virginal.     Faith  is   no  longer  in- 
credible, nor  happiness   a  mere  dream. 

At  six  o'clock  Ward  awoke,  with  a  feeling  of 
urgence,  of  necessity.  He  was  confused  for  some 
time;  the  vraisemblance  of  dreams  still  lingered; 
as  he  opened  his  eyes,  he  expected  to  see  a  face  that 
had  haunted  him  through  his  brief  sleep,  alluring, 
wondering,  accusing.  As  in  the  aftermath  of  a 
debauch,  when  the  brain  is  sluggish  and  unsure, 
and  details  have  not  emerged  from  the  complex  of 
disorder,  he  groped  for  a  clear  understanding. 
Slowly  the  picture  came  back:  the  face  with  closed 
eyes;  tranquil,  unfearing;  yet  condemning,  haunt- 
ing, demanding  reasons.  He  heard  the  measured 
breathing:  then,  reverberating,  insistent,  the  silence 
struck  him  like  a  tumult  of  sound.  Painfully,  he 
pieced  together  the  fragments  that  memory  sur- 


170  BABYLON 

rendered  with  reluctance.  Yet,  when  he  had  finished, 
when  the  happenings  of  the  night  had  been  recon- 
structed, he  did  not  comprehend.  He  thrust  out 
his  hand  as  if  to  ward  off  the  shadow  that  threat- 
ened to  overwhelm  him.  Surely  this  was  but  the 
distress  of  nightmare,  the  heaviness  of  a  dream  not 
yet  recognized  as  unreal,  incoherent! 

But  the  oppression  lingered.  He  could  not  recon- 
cile returning  commonsense  with  these  vivid  illu- 
sions: he  could  not  separate  the  earlier  impressions 
from  the  later  imaginings,  or  say  when  the  actual 
ended  and  fallacy  began.  He  remembered  the  grow- 
ing tempest  of  passion,  the  insurgence  of  his  whole 
nature  in  that  moon-flooded  night;  he  remembered 
the  unrest,  the  waiting,  then  the  clear  prevision. 
But  that  which  he  had  seen  through  the  mirror 
and  done  in  the  shadows  of  time  —  was  it  less  real 
than  the  unreality  of  the  moonlight,  a  phantasma- 
goria of  the  emotion-drugged  senses,  baseless  and 
futile? 

A  cold  bath  brightened  him.  He  dressed,  and 
went  out  into  the  garden.  Gradually,  habit  re- 
sumed its  control.  Events  and  imaginations  took 
their  proper  place  in  the  ordered  scheme  of  thought. 
The  revival  of  the  past,  the  augury  of  the  future, 
seemed  less  ominous.  The  peculiar  peacefulness  of 
the  early  hour,  the  sense  of  freshness  and  new  life, 
made  even  destiny  less  harsh  and  not  wholly 
irrevocable. 


BABYLON  171 

He  retraced  his  steps. 

Lord  Daventry,  sauntering  down  the  same  path, 
regarded  him  with  curious  eyes. 

"  I  perceive  that  you  are  thinking,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  a  useful  occupation,  which  I  frequently  com- 
mend to  the  young,  as  possessing  all  the  charms 
of  the  unfamiliar.  But  your  saintship  is  up  early. 
Is  this  a  libel  on  our  beds,  or  a  delicate  compli- 
ment to  our  sparkling  air  and  sunshine  —  truly 
so  different  from  the  reproachful  atmosphere  of 
your  own  dear  Arcadia?  Eh?  " 

"  There  is  certainly  a  shade  of  difference,"  his 
grandson  admitted. 

"  Yes ;  a  sunshade,"  the  old  man  rej  oined,  drily. 
"  When  I  recall  that  colossal  canopy  of  smoke,  that 
perpetual  fog  of  dust  and  ochreous  vapour,  I  have 
a  feeling  precisely  similar  to  the  one  which  distresses 
me  when  I  think  of  your  delightful  brother  — " 
He  paused  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  —  "  George. 
There  is  the  same  quality  of  opaqueness,  and  the 
same  prospect  that  it  will  be  everlasting."  He 
checked  himself,  and  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  I 
did  not  tell  you,"  he  resumed,  "  that  I  have  very 
good  reason  to  expect  very  bad  news.  This  ex- 
emplary —  "  He  paused  again,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  for  the  quaint  conjunction  had  become 
automatic  with  him  —  "  George,  I  am  told,  has  now 
fallen  in  love,  for  the  fourth  and  final  time,  with 
the  chorus  girl  of  our  melancholy  anticipations. 


172  BABYLON 

She  is  no  doubt  far  too  good  for  him,  but  I  can- 
not regard  her  with  enthusiasm  as  the  future  Lady 
Daventry.  Yet  the  entanglement  seems  likely  to 
proceed  to  that  fatal  extremity.  Pleasant,  eh?  " 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Ward  said.  He  understood  his 
grandfather  too  well  to  suggest  that  the  news  might 
be  false,  or,  if  true,  that  George's  momentary  in- 
tentions might  not  prove  permanent.  He  knew 
that  the  old  man  had  measured  the  precise  value 
of  his  information. 

"  Of  course,"  Lord  Daventry  continued,  "  we  are 
a  strange  family.  It  is  scarcely  fair  to  judge  us 
by  normal  standards,  for  we  are  not  normal  people. 
But  though  we  have  been  passionate  and  romantic, 
moody  and  misanthropic,  austere  and  cynical,  we 
have  never  yet  produced  such  a  specimen  as  —  I 
will  refrain  from  naming  him.  We  have  done  a  few 
wise  things  and  innumerable  wicked  things,  and 
some  of  us,  I  believe,  have  done  some  rather  re- 
markable things  —  you  know  that  legend  of  queer 
happenings  once  or  twice  in  the  centuries  —  magic 
or  deviltry,  second-sight  or  clairvoyance:  call  it 
what  you  will  —  " 

Ward  nodded. 

"  It  is  quite  possible,"  the  old  man  said,  "  that 
we  have  gone  as  far  as  chorus  girls,  or  their 
earlier  equivalents.  It  is  even  probable."  His  ex- 
pression was  curiously  benignant.  "  But  we  have 
never  gone  further.  We  have  avoided  asking  them 


BABYLON  173 

to  return  the  visit.  It  has  been  reserved  for  the 
freak  of  the  family  to  issue  that  invitation.  For- 
tunately, the  girl  cannot  accept  the  proposal  with- 
out also  accepting  the  proposer.  That  will  at  least 
cause  her  to  hesitate.  Eh?  "  He  took  his  grand- 
son's arm.  "  But  one  can  never  trust  women.  The 
best  of  them  are  bad  —  for  young  men.  Now  even 
you,  my  dear  John,  have  been  scorching  your 
saintly  soul  in  the  alluring  flame  of  femininity.  It 
is  amusing,  of  course,  but  dangerous." 

Ward  withdrew  his  arm.  "  I  thought  we  knew 
each  other  well  enough,"  he  said  coldly,  "  to  refrain 
from  irritating  interference.  In  any  event,  you 
know  that  I  have  always  gone,  and  shall'  always 
go,  my  own  way  —  as  you  have  gone  yours." 

"  I  trust  not,"  Lord  Daventry  said.  "  Go  your 
own  way,  if  you  must  —  but  not  as  I  have  gone 
mine.  My  path  was  a  trifle  irregular,  and  irregu- 
larities, my  dear  John,  are  expensive." 

He  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  reviewing  a  pro- 
cession of  ghosts.  Their  faces  seemed  less  pallid, 
less  accusing,  in  that  sunlit  hour. 

"  Have  I  ever  mentioned  to  you,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  that  during  my  wanderings  in  America,  I  met  one 
of  the  millionaires  for  which  that  great  country 
is  justly  celebrated?  He  had  been  a  gold-miner,  I 
believe,  and  a  speculator.  Amongst  other  things, 
he  had  speculated  in  matrimony,  —  and  lost  heavily. 
Yet  his  wife  was  a  very  charming  woman;  un- 


174  BABYLON 

usually  attractive,  and  also  unusual  in  other  ways. 
As  I  understood  the  story,  there  were  faults  on 
both  sides,  but  no  open  scandal:  that  is  to  say, 
everybody  knew  about  it,  but  it  was  a  profound 
secret.  There  was  no  divorce.  The  lady,  though 
lax,  was  a  Catholic.  —  By  the  way,  Lady  Winter, 
I  believe,  is  a  Catholic?  " 

"  I  don't  see  the  point,"  Ward  said.  "  Of  course, 
I  know  there  is  one,  or  you  would  not  have  revived 
the  story." 

"  A  coincidence,  rather  than  a  point,"  the  old 
man  rejoined,  suavely.  "You  see,  I  happened  to 
meet  the  lady  again  in  England,  and  I  was  naturally 
interested.  She  has  resumed  the  name  of  her  first 
husband,  and  is  regarded  as  a  widow.  Odd  that 
I  should  meet  her,  eh  ?  —  especially  as  I  am  per- 
haps the  only  man  in  the  country  who  is  aware 
of  the  precise  circumstances.  Of  course,  every 
woman  is  entitled  to  her  own  past,  and  I  should 
not  dream  of  referring  to  a  purely  private  matter 
unless  there  were  excellent  reasons.  I  am  not  by 
inclination  a  preacher.  I  advance  no  claims  to 
saintliness.  It  is  not  my  business  to  improve  the 
morals  of  the  world,  to  safeguard  the  innocent,  or 
be  shocked  by  the  too  sophisticated.  Let  the  bishops 
earn  their  salaries.  I  am  merely  a  connoisseur  of 
emotion.  I  have  played  a  somewhat  active  role 
in  my  time:  now,  old  and  outmoded,  in  spite  of 
Philpotts,  I  prefer  to  look  on,  to  criticise,  to  be 


BABYLON  175 

cynical  —  but  not  to  interfere.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
permissible  to  offer  a  suggestion  —  if  one  does  not 
make  a  habit  of  being  so  foolish.  Eh?  "  He  looked 
thoughtfully  at  his  grandson.  "  I  should  n't  —  go 
too  far  with  Lady  Winter,  if  I  were  you,"  he  said. 
"Her  husband  might  object  —  even  if  he  had  to 
come  from  America  to  do  so." 

He  patted  Ward's   arm  gently.     "  Our  modern 
Saint  John  has  also  his  revelation,"  he  murmured. 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE  Poet  Who  Had  Wandered  was  explaining 
Love,  the  inexplicable. 

"  Once,"  he  said,  "I  was  rambling  in  a 
country  of  scattered  farms  and  villages.  It  was 
in  the  early  autumn,  and  nature  was  wearing  those 
wonderful  tints  in  which  the  splendour  of  the  sum- 
mer, and  the  desolation  of  the  winter,  are  symbolled 
so  hauntingly.  At  the  end  of  a  long  day,  I  came 
to  the  crest  of  a  hill  and  looked  down  into  a  little 
valley,  with  a  solitary  cottage  in  the  midst  of  it. 
It  was  so  peaceful.  And  I  went  down,  leaving  be- 
hind me  the  great,  strange  world,  with  its  dead 
sun,  and  came  to  the  cottage,  to  rest,  and  find 
shelter,  and  be  at  ease.  And  I  thought  of  Love,  in 
one  of  its  aspects  —  the  Love  which  beckons  a  man 
when  he  is  weary  and  sad-hearted,  and  calls  him 
to  quietude  and  solace,  though  it  be  in  a  little  cot- 
tage in  a  far-away  valley  of  life,  and  he  must  leave 
behind  him  —  yet  so  gladly  —  the  large  visions  of 
the  world,  and  descend  from  the  hill  that  he  had 
climbed." 

The    Cynic    asked,    whether    rambling    produced 
such   serious,  delightful   thoughts,   or  whether   the 


BABYLON  177 

thoughts  themselves  induce  the  habit  of  ram- 
bling. 

The  Poet  did  not  answer.  The  sun  shone  on  his 
brown-grey  hair,  and  his  face,  noble  in  its  outlines, 
lost  the  petulant  expression  that  too  often  dis- 
figured it.  He  seemed  younger,  more  sincere,  less 
hardened  by  the  disappointments  and  rebuffs  which 
his  temperament  had  made  inevitable. 

"  There  is  another  aspect,"  he  said.  "  Of  course, 
there  are  very  numerous  aspects:  Love  is  a  jewel 
with  many  facets.  But  at  this  moment  I  am  think- 
ing especially  of  one.  I  have  spoken  of  the  quiet, 
serene  affection  which  appeals  to  a  man  who  has 
passed  through  some  degree  of  tribulation  and  dis- 
illusionment. But  consider  the  ardent  flame  of  the 
young,  who  have  not  proved  with  growing  weari- 
ness and  bitterness  of  heart  the  vanity  of  all  en- 
thusiasm, and  reverence,  and  high  hopes.  Some- 
where in  the  twilight,  eyes  challenge  eyes  and  hot 
lips  meet.  Time,  fleeting  and  sombre,  is  trans- 
figured. In  the  immensity  of  faith,  the  sordid  and 
commonplace  lives  that  litter  the  world  are  dwarfed 
and  disregarded.  Clear  signs  they  are,  of  wrecked 
ideals  and  abandoned  dreams.  But  the  new  dis- 
ciples will  learn  only  from  their  own  experience. 
And  in  ten  years,  perhaps,  in  the  place  of  the 
happy,  soft-eyed  girl,  there  is  another  dowdy 
woman,  with  her  babies,  her  washing,  mending, 
cleaning  and  cooking,  if  she  be  poor;  or  her  empty 


178  BABYLON 

idleness  and  empty  heart,  if  she  be  rich.  And  there 
is  another  disappointed,  disagreeable  man,  who  goes 
forth  drearily  to  his  labour  or  to  his  club,  and 
returns  disconsolately  to  his  home.  But  why  this 
sad  transformation?  Is  Love,  then,  such  a  little 
thing,  and  so  ephemeral  ?  " 

The  Humorist  said  he  did  n't  think  so.  The 
emotion  itself,  he  had  noticed,  possessed  remark- 
able vitality:  to  use  the  simple,  unaffected  language 
of  modern  criticism,  it  was  tough,  very  tough.  But 
it  required  variety.  As  soon  as  it  had  exhausted 
the  possibilities  of  one  beloved  object,  it  passed  on 
gently  but  firmly  to  another  object,  equally  be- 
loved. He  might  quote  the  words  of  an  immortal 
writer  whose  venerated  name  he  had  unfortunately 
forgotten:  Qui  a  aime,  aimera.  Perhaps  he  should 
not  have  said  that  love  required  variety  —  change 
was  the  better  word.  For  the  true  lover  was  con- 
stant to  the  type,  though  unfaithful  to  the  indi- 
vidual. Personally,  he  blamed  Oxford  for  the  mis- 
fortune. It  was  the  prerogative  of  that  noble  uni- 
versity to  restrain  enthusiasm,  to  nip  originality 
in  the  tender  bud.  Why  did  it  not  nip  with  classic 
claws  this  amorous  flitting  from  flower  to  flower? 
He  also  blamed  the  Government.  They  had  ap- 
pointed Commissions  to  sit  upon  everything,  from 
bovine  tuberculosis  to  the  consumption  of  alcohol. 
Why  did  n't  they  appoint  a  Commission  to  sit  upon 
the  expansive  form  of  amativism? 


BABYLON  179 

The  Poet  thought  that  the  Humorist,  in  his 
whimsical  way,  had  mentioned  a  profound  principle. 
Qui  a  aime,  aimera.  How  true  it  was !  Yet,  alas ! 
for  the  poor  lover,  who,  seeking  always  for  the 
affinity  of  his  dreams,  found  in  successive  experi- 
ments repeated  disappointments.  It  was  sad  that 
when  women  were  so  plentiful,  and  so  accessible,  the 
ideal  woman  remained  so  elusive. 

Lady  Normacott,  opening  her  eyes  slowly,  en- 
quired :  "  And  the  ideal  man  ?  " 

The  Humorist  said  that  he  felt  diffident,  but  in 
fairness  to  the  community  he  ctmld  not  take  the 
responsibility  of  concealing  himself  any  longer. 
Unmasked,  but  modest,  he  came  forward  from  a 
mere  seirse  of  duty. 

The  Poet  sighed.  "  Yes,"  he  murmured,  "  we 
all  wear  masks.  But  greater  than  the  mystery  of 
the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask,  is  the  mystery  of 
Woman  in  the  Eternal  Mask." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  the  Critic  complained,  "  that  I 
do  not  quite  understand  that  enigmatic  utterance." 

"  I  myself  do  not  quite  comprehend  it,"  the  Poet 
answered.  "  Nevertheless,  I  know  that  it  embraces 
a  profound  truth." 

Lady  Winter,  seated  at  a  little  distance,  smiled. 
Lord  Daventry,  approaching  her,  smiled  at  the  smile. 

"  While  these  dear  people  are  babbling,"  he  said, 
"  I  would  like  to  tell  you  a  little  story,  which  seems 
to  me  amusing.  But  I  suggest,  unless  you  are 


180  BABYLON 

fatigued,  that  we  withdraw  for  a  few  moments  from 
this  poetical  exhibition  which  my  daughter-in-law 
finds  so  entertaining.  By  the  lake,  there  are  several 
rustic  arbours,  ancient  and  modern,  in  which,  un- 
distracted,  one  could  tell  an  amusing  story  quite 
pleasantly." 

Lady  Winter's  slow  gaze  questioned  his  eyes, 
which  seemed  inscrutable. 

She  rose. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  resist  the  temptation  of  an 
amusing  story  —  from  Lord  Daventry,"  she  said. 
"  It  will  be  so  delightfully  —  original." 

Lord  Daventry  realized  that  the  momentary 
pauses  were  suggestive.  The  lines  round  his  mouth 
deepened,  producing  the  impression  of  an  incipient 
grin,  which  flickered,  and  vanished,  unconsummated. 

"  It  would  be  impossible,"  he  said,  "  not  to  be 
original  —  with  such  encouragement." 

"  I  did  not  know,"  Lady  Winter  said,  "  that  men 
required  encouragement  —  from  women." 

"  They  do  not  require  it,"  he  answered.  "  But 
they  usually  receive  it." 

The  Cynic,  watching  them  go,  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "Beauty  and  the  Beast?"  he  asked  himself, 
and  answered :  "  There  is  a  good  deal  of  both  in 
each." 

They  followed  the  winding  path  to  the  lake. 
When  they  reached  it,  Lord  Daventry  invited  his 
companion  to  sit  down  on  one  of  the  unpretentious 


BABYLON  181 

seats.  She  did  so,  without  protest.  It  was  the 
same  bench  to  which  Ward  had  taken  her.  Her 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  confessions  and  strange 
intimacy  of  that  afternoon,  which,  though  so  near, 
already  seemed  remote.  Her  lips,  compressed  by 
a  sense  of  antagonism,  of  coming  conflict,  lost  for 
a  moment  their  hardness:  she  half  closed  her  eyes, 
as  if,  in  semi-darkness,  to  conjure  back  the  impres- 
sions and  emotions  of  that  sudden  crisis. 

"  You  will  forgive  me,"  Lord  Daventry  said,  "  for 
bringing  you  so  far  merely  to  listen  to  an  amusing 
story.  But  I  myself  went  much  further  to  hear  it, 
in  the  first  instance.  Indeed,  I  consider  that  I  went 
almost  as  far  as  an  elderly  man,  with  no  character 
to  lose,  can  be  expected  to  go  —  from  Clarice's, 
which  is  quite  respectable  when  Society  is  out  of 
town,  to  Bishop's,  which  is  — "  He  twisted  the 
handle  of  his  ebony  stick,  thoughtfully  —  "  in  New 
York." 

"  It  sounds  rather  ecclesiastical,"  she  said,  her 
lips  hardening  again. 

"  Yet  it  has  no  connection  with  the  straight  and 
narrow  path  of  duty,"  he  answered.  "  You  will 
find  it  in  that  famous  Broadway  which  leads  so 
many  to  destruction  —  with  its  kindly  lights  amid 
the  encircling  gloom.  Eh  ?  " 

"  I  have  heard  that  Broadway  is  a  brilliant 
thoroughfare,"  she  said  composedly. 

The   old  man  did  not  look  at  her.     "  Since  my 


182  BABYLON 

visit  to  the  United  States,"  he  said,  "  I  have  some- 
times regretted  that  with  the  disadvantages  of  senile 
decay,  which  my  friends  attribute  to  me,  I  do  not 
possess  also  some  of  its  privileges,  such  as  loss  of 
memory.  I  would  gladly  efface  a  few  unpleasant 
but  still  vivid  impressions.  For  though  I  have  some 
affection  for  a  simple  democratic  community,  I  do 
not  care  greatly  for  a  raw  plutocracy.  On  one 
occasion  I  was  actually  compelled  to  dine  with  an 
assortment  of  millionaires  —  I,  whom  Philpotts  has 
habituated  to  his  own  high  standard.  But  Ameri- 
cans have  no  ancient  caste  of  valets,  and  conse- 
quently no  traditional  code  of  conduct  —  no  infal- 
lible criterion  of  dignity." 

"  Yet  it  seemed  to  me,"  Lady  Winter  observed 
pensively,  "  that  American  men,  though  sometimes 
unpolished,  had  not  lost  the  quality  of  virility  which 
is  so  rare  in  really  civilized  countries." 

"  In  Europe,"  Lord  Daventry  said,  "  natural 
selection  has  resolved  itself  into  feminism.  In 
America,  mere  masculinity  has  not  yet  been  crushed 
out  by  the  preference  of  the  women  for  lap-dogs. 
A  man  can  still  find  there  all  the  consolations  of 
materialism,  unembittered  by  idealism.  But  may  I 
return  to  Bishop's  ?  I  once  —  and  this  is  the  amus- 
ing story  I  wished  you  to  hear  —  dropped  in  at 
Bishop's  for  an  after-theatre  supper,  with  an  agree- 
able acquaintance  whom  I  had  met  at  my  hotel. 
A  slight  accident  —  I  happened  to  swear  at  him  — 


BABYLON  183 

led  to  the  discovery  that  we  had  mutual  friends  — 
in  America.  I  apologized,  of  course,  for  his  stu- 
pidity, and  we  passed  a  pleasant  evening  together, 
finishing  at  Bishop's.  While  we  were  toying  with 
terrapin,  I  noticed  a  lady  at  another  table:  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  avoid  noticing  her,  for 
she  had  unusual  beauty  and  unusual  charm.  I  had 
never  met  her  before;  I  did  not  know  her  name; 
and  I  certainly  did  not  imagine  that  I  should 
meet  her  again  —  any  more  than  I  should  have 
expected,  Lady  Winter,  to  meet  you  —  here,  at  this 
moment." 

Lady  Winter  carefully  failed  to  conceal  a  yawn. 
Lord  Daventry,  as  carefully,  failed  to  perceive  her 
failure. 

"  But  fate,"  he  continued,  "  which  has  made  me 
what  I  am  —  with  a  little  personal  assistance  — 
has  evidently  determined  to  compensate  me  for  that 
somewhat  ironical  creative  jest.  I  have  been  per- 
mitted to  see  again  the  beautiful  face  which,  viewed 
once,  in  an  atmosphere  of  indolence,  where  people 
refrain  from  too  close  scrutiny  or  criticism,  never- 
theless left  an  indelible  impression." 

"That  you  should  meet  again,"  Lady  Winter 
observed,  "  by  a  special  effort  of  Providence,  a 
pretty  woman  whom  you  once  saw  in  a  well-known 
restaurant,  is  certainly  excruciatingly  funny.  Yet 
it  would  almost  seem  that  the  special  effort  of 
Providence  would  have  been  required  to  prevent 


184  BABYLON 

such  a  rencontre.     People  who  move,  apparently, 
in  the  same  circles  and  have  similar  Bohemian  tastes 

—  that  is  the  proper  phrase,  is  n't  it,  for  doubtful 
habits  ?  —  are  liable  to  meet  more  than  once  with- 
out being  helped  by  a  miracle." 

There  was  a  characteristic  insolence  in  her  man- 
ner and  in  her  slow  speech,  that  attracted  the  old, 
cynical  man  of  the  world.  For  the  note  of  crude- 
ness,  of  petulance,  was  absent.  The  music  of  her 
voice  seemed  narcotic,  dulling  the  sting  of  the  words ; 
and  her  beauty  and  perfect  poise  invested  with 
charm  a  frankness  which,  from  an  ugly  woman, 
would  have  seemed  regrettable. 

"  Had  I  been  even  twenty  years  younger,"  he 
said,  "  it  would  have  taken  several  special  efforts 
of  Providence  to  prevent  such  a  meeting.  For  one 
does  not  see  every  day  a  face  which  makes  the 
breaking  of  the  last  commandment  so  simple,  or 
recognize  a  temperament  which  can  appreciate  so 
delightfully  the  homage  of  that  shattered  twelfth. 

—  Somebody  else  had  been  doing  a  little  shatter- 
ing,   I    think,"    he    added   drily.      "  For   the   lady, 
though  accompanied,  was  not  accompanied  by  her 
husband.     Curiously,  I  was." 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  She  remained  silent, 
and  he  continued :  "  The  attitudes  of  the  husband 
and  wife,  when  they  discovered  each  other,  were 
poems  in  pose.  The  glances  which  they  exchanged 
were  optical  epigrams.  It  appeared  that  this  was 


BABYLON  185 

their  first  meeting  since  the  regretted  separation. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  delicate."  He  looked 
at  the  lake,  cool,  smooth,  chromatic.  "  Really, 
Lady  Winter,  I  congratulate  you  on  your  taste 
in  husbands." 

He  expected  her  to  be  disconcerted.  Looking  at 
him  steadily,  she  laughed  —  a  low,  rippling  laugh 
of  amusement. 

"  What  a  long  time  you  have  taken,"  she  said, 
"  to  tell  me  that  I  was  discovered.  But  really,  you 
know,  if  I  choose  to  retain  the  name  of  my  first 
husband,  and  to  be  discreetly  silent  about  —  the 
other  —  is  n't  it,  after  all,  just  my  own  affair,  and 
nobody  else's  ?  "  There  was  a  challenge,  and  some- 
thing of  contempt,  in  her  calm  survey. 

"  Assuredly,  it  is  your  own  affair,"  he  replied 
with  composure  — "  unless  you  choose  to  make  it 
mine  also.  I  imagined  that  the  secret  would  remain 
buried  in  this  sympathetic  breast,  which  has  sepul- 
chred so  many  mysteries,  so  many  of  those  ghostly 
skeletons  of  conscience  that  haunt  the  fair  and 
frail.  Eh?  But  there  are  occasions  when  it  is 
cruel  to  be  kind,  and  one  of  those  occasions,  I  think, 
is  when  a  lady  is  so  —  indiscreet  —  as  to  allow  her- 
self to  become  —  almost  —  a  somnambulist.  There 
is  always  the  sad  and  dangerous  possibility  that 
she  might  wander  into  —  the  wrong  room. ' 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  not  interested  in  somnam- 
bulism," she  said. 


186  BABYLON 

"  I  used  the  word  strictly  as  a  euphemism,"  he 
replied.  "  It  is  not  necessary  for  a  lady  to  be  a 
somnambulist  in  order  to  open  her  door  at  an  hour 
when  doors  should  be  severely  closed.  But  I  con- 
sider it  is  always  more  polite  to  be  pleasant,  and 
more  pleasant  to  be  polite.  Besides,  one  can  often 
hurt  a  great  deal  more.  Eh?  You  see,  it  was  quite 
simple.  I  heard  a  key  turn.  You  will  excuse  my 
inexcusable  curiosity?  It  is  so  long  since  I  was 
familiar  with  the  turning  of  keys."  He  looked  at 
her  for  a  little  while;  then,  dropping  his  bantering 
tone,  spoke  with  a  directness  and  earnestness  that 
seemed  strange  from  those  lips,  moulded  by  sneers, 
inured  to  cynicism. 

"  Lady  Winter,"  he  said,  "  I  am  going  to  make 
an  appeal  to  you,  and  I  think  you  will  not  dis- 
regard it.  If  I  read  you  rightly  —  and  I  have 
been  considered  a  good  judge  of  women  —  there 
can  be  few  moods  of  emotion  that  you  have  not 
tested,  few  character-riddles,  complex  or  shallow, 
that  you  have  not  solved.  You  have  had  your 
triumphs  and  your  amusement,  and  no  doubt  your 
deeper  feelings.  Monotonous  your  life  can  scarcely 
have  been.  You  are  not  in  the  position  of  a  woman 
who  has  lived  through  dreary  days,  dreaming 
vaguely  of  this  game  of  love,  but  playing  no  part 
in  it  until,  perhaps,  fate  gives  her  her  chance  at 
last  and  provides  her  with  a  master  —  or  a  toy. 
One  could  not  expect  her  to  surrender  either  of 


BABYLON  187 

these  gifts  light-heartedly.  But  you  have  no  starved 
and  gnawing  instincts  clamant  for  their  food.  If 
not  satiated,  you  have  at  least  dined  lingeringly 
and  well."  He  relapsed  for  a  moment  into  his  cus- 
tomary manner. 

"  An  admirable  metaphor,"  she  murmured. 
"  How  well  —  really  —  you  understand  women.  It 
is  extraordinary." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  offend  you,"  Lord  Daventry 
said.  "  But  I  assume  that  you  have  had  lovers  — 
it  is  impossible  that  you  should  not  have  had  — 
lovers  of  many  types,  strong,  weak,  experienced, 
ingenuous.  One  more  or  less  can  make  little  dif- 
ference. Now  it  is  obvious  to  you,  and  to  me,  that 
my  grandson  is  infatuated  with  you.  I  do  not  blame 
him,  but  I  do  ask  you  to  make  it  easier  for  him 
to  conquer  a  passion  which  could  so  easily  make 
shipwreck  of  his  life.  I  have  been  proud  of  John. 
I  know  well,  though  he  does  not  know  that  I  know, 
how  strong  and  remorseless  his  temptations  have 
been:  for  we  have  wild  blood  in  our  veins,  and  I 
am  very  sure  that  what  I  inherited  in  the  way  of 
deviltry,  I  transmitted  with  compound  interest 
added.  John  must  have  had  many  a  struggle  with 
the  beast  within  him.  Yet  he  has  gone  steadfastly 
on  his  way,  without  making  any  fuss  about  it. 
Lady  Winter,  you  are  not  —  forgive  me  —  a  good 
woman.  It  is  a  strange  thing  for  me  to  say  that. 
I  could  not  say  it  under  any  other  conditions.  But 


188  BABYLON 

an  old  man  who  has  seen  and  done  much  evil,  can 
recognize  his  own  type,  though  it  be  incarnated  in 
a  form  so  beautiful.  I  speak  to  you  as  a  comrade 
to  a  cgmrade:  not  condemning;  understanding 
perfectly;  but  compelled  to  speak  by  the  one  duty 
that  I  hold  sacred." 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  she  said  composedly.  "  I 
admit  frankly  that  I  am  not  a  good  woman.  I  have 
already  acknowledged  the  truth  to  your  grandson." 

Lord  Daventry  was  puzzled.  "  You  are  more 
subtle  or  more  simple  than  I  conceived,"  he  said. 
"  But  let  it  pass.  —  Lady  Winter,  send  my  boy 
from  you,  kill  this  infatuation  of  his.  You  can  do 
it.  You  know  well  that,  your  —  love  —  would  be 
a  fatal  gift  for  him.  He  must  not  yield  to  this 
allurement  of  lips  and  eyes  and  soft  white  limbs. 
Once  flesh  the  carnal  devil  that  is  in  him,  and 
Heaven  knows  what  the  end  would  be.  I  think  I 
know,  also.  Lady  Winter,  my  grandson  is  a  brave 
man.  He  imagines  that  I  mock  him  when  I  call 
him,  as  I  often  do,  Saint  John.  Perhaps  he  is 
right.  The  gift  of  sneering  which  I  possess  so  com- 
prehensively tends  to  develop  into  a  habit.  But 
if  I  have  mocked  him,  there  was  something  beneath 
the  mockery.  I  see  in  him  what  I  might  have  been. 
I  see  in  him  also  another  possibility  —  that  he  may 
become  what  I  am.  And  God  forbid !  "  The  lines  in 
his  face  deepened. 

Lady  Winter  was   astonished  at   this  revelation 


BABYLON  189 

of  feeling  in  one  whom  she  had  considered  cynical, 
self-centred,  withered  emotionally. 

"  You  have  been  very  frank,"  she  said.  "  I  will 
be  equally  frank  with  you.  You  say  I  am  not  a 
good  woman.  I  am  not.  You  say  I  have  had 
lovers.  I  have.  You  say  you  understand  women. 
It  is  a  delightful  gift  which  I  do  not  share.  I 
am  merely  one  of  those  peculiar  women,  Lord  Dav- 
entry,  who  understand  perfectly  that  they  cannot 
hope  to  understand  themselves.  Most  women  are 
so  delightfully  normal  that  they  never  admit  that 
they  are  incomprehensible.  They  have  been  per- 
suaded, by  generations  of  flattery,  that  they  have 
a  remarkable  gift  called  intuition,  which  enables 
them  to  be  infallible  without  being  logical.  They 
really  believe  this.  They  believe  that  they  can  read 
character  at  a  glance.  They  even  believe  that  they 
can  think.  But  not  one  woman  in  a  thousand  really 
can  think.  They  mistake  reflex  actions  for  reflec- 
tion. A  woman  does  not  think  —  she  emotionalizes. 
She  does  not  know  —  she  feels.  She  does  not  read 
character  —  she  invents  it.  Consequently  she  makes 
mistakes,  perpetually.  But  she  does  not  realize  that 
she  has  made  mistakes,  because  she  has  no  thought- 
standards.  She  has  only  emotion-standards.  When 
her  interest  wanes,  her  passion  dwindles,  she  does 
not  ask  why;  she  is  merely  conscious  of  the  desire 
for  a  change.  When  her  interest  increases  and  her 
passion  intensifies,  it  is  no  good  asking  her  to  be 
rational.  She  is  too  busy  being  a  woman." 


190  BABYLON 

"  It  is  an  occupation  that  no  doubt  takes  a  great 
deal  of  time,"  Lord  Daventry  said.  "  A  very  pleas- 
ing occupation.  But  I  do  not  quite  understand  —  " 

"  You  wonder  what  I  mean  ?  "  Lady  Winter  asked. 
"  I  don't  know.  I  am  trying  to  find  out.  Of 
course,  you  will  think  I  am  strange.  I  cannot  help  it. 
I  do  not  wish  to  help  it.  I  am  a  woman,  you  see.  I 
must  go  my  own  way  and  work  out  my  own  destiny." 

Lord  Daventry  stiffened.  "  You  are  not  di- 
vorced, I  believe?  "  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  returned  with  composure.  "  I  am  not 
divorced." 

"  It  is  impossible  for  you,  therefore,  to  marry 
my  grandson,"  he  continued. 

She  smiled  at  him,  gently.  "  Really,"  she  said, 
"  —  such  trifles  —  need  we  discuss  them,  you  and 
I?  " 

"  Am  I  to  understand,"  he  enquired,  deliberately, 
"  that  you  are  a  candidate  for  the  position  of  my 
grandson's  mistress?  " 

She  smiled  again.  "  How  quaintly  you  put 
things,"  she  murmured.  "  No  doubt  it  is  because 
you  understand  women  so  well." 

Lord  Daventry  recognized  that  the  discussion 
was  over. 

"  I  apologize,"  he  said,  "  for  my  lapse  into 
sentimentality,  which  of  course  seemed  as  ridiculous 
to  you,  as  it  now  appears  painful  to  me.  It  will 
be  a  long  time,  I  fancy,  before  I  again  forget  the 


BABYLON  191 

wiser  habits  of  a  lifetime  hitherto  unstained  by  any 
foolish  consideration  for  other  people." 

"  A  modern  Bayard,"  she  laughed.  "  But  your 
grandson,  Lord  Daventry,  belongs  to  the  older  type, 
I  think."  She  rose. 

"  You  will  of  course  be  interested  in  finding  out," 
he  said.  "  But  if  we  were  back  in  that  delightful 
feudal  age,  you  would  probably  be  interested  in 
trying  to  find  your  way  out  of  the  lake,  to  which 
I  should  certainly  have  consigned  you.  However, 
as  this  is  the  twentieth  century  —  "  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

She  finished  the  sentence. 

"  We  have  to  live  up  to  the  high  standard  of 
decadence."  She  added,  inconsequently :  "  By  the 
way,  you  have  not,  I  presume,  bored  yourself  by 
discussing  my  second  marriage  with  —  anyone?" 

"  I  believe  I  mentioned  the  fact  to  my  grandson," 
he  returned  drily. 

"  I  thought  there  were  certain  things  one  did  n't 
do,"  she  said. 

"  Where  women  are  concerned,  nothing  is  impos- 
sible," he  answered.  "  You  see,  I  imagined  that 
John  might  be  interested.  Besides,  it  was  an  ob- 
vious precaution." 

She  flushed  a  little.     "Against  what?" 

His  lips  twitched,  then  drooped  at  the  corners. 

"Shall  we  say  —  excessive  somnambulism?"  he 
suggested. 


CHAPTER   XIH 

COFFEE  was  served  on  the  veranda.  As  the 
twilight  became  more  shadowed,  the  poets 
talked,  half  seriously,  of  the  happiness  of 
the  uninspired;  the  women  talked,  half  mockingly, 
of  the  inspiration  of  the  unhappy;  the  Critic,  un- 
critical, listened  dreamily ;  and  the  Cynic,  uncynical, 
composed  a  sonnet,  which  he  recited  to  the  Greatest 
Living  Novelist.  Only  the  Humorist  was  wholly 
unhappy.  Looking  upward  to  where  the  stars 
should  shine,  he  felt  that  he  was  misunderstood. 
The  world  did  not  comprehend  the  tragedy  of  a 
breaking  heart  which  he  concealed  with  light  laugh- 
ter and  merry  jests.  Without  recognition,  without 
sympathy,  his  heart  must  continue  its  lonely  break- 
ing. The  tragedy  was  unknown,  wasted.  He  looked 
at  the  Cynic,  wallowing  in  appreciation,  and  felt 
that  life's  little  ironies  were  too  deep  for  concealment. 

Ward,  watching  and  listening,  realized  that  to 
say  nothing  of  importance,  and  to  say  it  cleverly, 
required  less  skill  than  to  say  a  really  clever  thing 
as  if  it  were  nothing  of  importance.  The  game 
amused  him. 

One  by  one,  the  stars  began  to  glitter,  and  the 


BABYLON  193 

tenuous  light  of  the  moon  wavered  through  the  air, 
making  the  darkness  visible,  rather  than  obliterat- 
ing it.  But  gradually,  the  thin  waves  became  a 
silver  flood :  the  terraced  gardens  were  revealed, 
with  their  winding  paths,  their  oases  of  colourless 
flowers,  their  rectangles  and  ordered  figures:  and 
in  the  distance,  the  woods  stood  out,  clear  yet  mys- 
terious ;  silent,  sinister,  seductive. 

The  Poet  Who  Had  Wandered  began  to  tell  tales 
of  Stevenson  and  his  island  home;  of  Lafcadio 
Hearn  and  his  chosen  exile ;  of  Wilde,  and  Thomp- 
son, and  that  poet  named  Narcissus,  who  had  once 
been  young.  And  as  he  spoke,  he  perceived  that 
he  was  speaking  of  the  dead;  for  those  who  have 
been  young,  are  also  dead,  and  Narcissus  would  be 
young  no  more.  His  voice  began  to  falter  and  his 
words  came  slowly  and  at  longer  intervals.  At 
last  they  ceased.  Quietly,  he  slipped  away,  for  he 
was  a  wanderer,  and  the  lit  woods  called  him.  Soon, 
the  Cynic  followed,  meditating  another  sonnet;  the 
Greatest  Living  Novelist,  patient  still,  went  with 
him.  Two  by  two,  or  one  by  one,  the  others  drifted 
away.  The  Humorist  took  his  breaking  heart  into 
the  lonely  night.  The  American  Poet  went  forth, 
with  long  strides,  to  adumbrate  a  sunrise.  Only  the 
Poet  Who  Had  Remained  at  Home  lingered,  true 
to  his  traditions,  in  his  chair.  He  was  asleep. 

Lady  Winter  and  Ward  had  risen  together,  as 
if  at  the  same  signal.  She  looked  across  at  him, 


194  BABYLON 

and  turned.  He  followed  her.  They  went  once  more 
to  the  lake;  and  there,  tranquillized  at  first  by 
the  stillness  and  splendour  of  the  night,  they  sat 
together. 

They  were  silent  for  some  time.  Ward  felt  curi- 
ously impersonal,  detached.  After  the  delirium  of 
the  preceding  night,  he  appeared  immune  from  fitful 
fevers;  in  that  flame  of  passion,  his  character 
seemed  to  have  crystallized.  His  brain  was  clear, 
his  blood  cool.  He  was  no  longer  a  battleground 
for  conflicting  forces. 

It  is  as  easy  for  a  woman,  as  for  a  man,  to  rec- 
ognize the  varying  shades  of  feeling  in  those  who 
are  near  to  them,  to  know  when  emotion  responds 
to  emotion,  when  desires  are  sympathetic,  and  pas- 
sion is  unchecked  by  doubt.  And  when  moods 
change,  when  the  attraction  of  sex  is  complicated 
by  subtle  currents  of  aloofness,  she  requires  no 
overt  announcement.  Her  intuition,  useless  in  af- 
fairs, is  invaluable  in  amours. 

Ward's  self-control  was  obvious  to  Lady  Winter. 
His  attitude  was  that  of  a  man  who  has  passed 
beyond  passion,  rather  than  of  one  who  merely 
restrains  himself,  superbly  or  through  fear.  He 
radiated  coldness,  inaccessibility.  She  was  dis- 
tressed: the  air  seemed  chilled,  the  beauty  of  the 
summer  night  was  tinged  with  the  foreshadowing 
of  winter  bareness.  So  easily  is  fact  coloured  or 
etiolated  by  fancy,  so  easily  is  matter  denuded  or 


BABYLON  195 

garlanded  to  correspond  with  the  transient  emo- 
tions of  mind. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  no  longer  a  lover 
whom  she  could  tantalize  or  delight,  weaving  the 
hours  into  music,  or  shattering  them  into  discords. 
Would  he  indeed  tread  no  more  the  measures  of 
the  immemorial  dance,  follow  no  more  the  lure  of 
beauty  and  strange  tempting?  And  as  the  fashion 
of  the  courtesan  dropped  from  her,  useless  now,  she 
craved  for  his  love  with  a  torturing  vehemence. 
His  reserve  invested  him  with  a  new  power:  for 
all  women  are  at  heart  oriental.  They  may  yield 
to  the  entreaties  of  their  slaves,  but  invariably  with 
something  of  contempt.  At  the  command  of  a 
master,  confident  and  serene,  they  will  render  not 
only  the  things  that  are  Caesar's,  but  the  things 
that  are  God's. 

At  last  she  leaned  toward  him.  "  Dear,"  she 
said :  "  You  called  me  last  night.  You  wanted 
me." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  happened,"  she  said.  "  I 
tried  to  come  to  you,  but  everything  is  strange,  as 
if  I  had  been  dreaming:  blurred,  unreal.  I  was 
frightened,  yet  I  do  not  know  why." 

"  Dreams  in  the  night,"  he  said.  "  Why  recall 
them?" 

"  I  want  to  understand,"  she  said.  "  You  called 
me;  I  tried  to  come  to  you.  It  was  as  if  I  were 


196  BABYLON 

asleep,  almost.  But  someone  passed.  I  could  not 
come ;  there  were  eyes  watching.  I  could  see  them ; 
they  burnt  me.  And  suddenly  I  was  in  a  strange 
room.  There  was  light  at  first,  then  darkness.  I 
can  remember  no  more  —  except  a  face  bending 
over  me  —  your  face:  yet  not  yours;  changed, 
hard,  remorseless.  In  shadow.  I  saw  it,  in  the 
darkness.  How? " 

"And  after?"  he  asked. 

"  I  do  not  remember,"  she  said. 

"  You  were  dreaming,"  he  said. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  It  was  your  dream,  if  a 
dream  at  all;  and  I  was  just  a  part  of  it." 

He  was  silent. 

"What  did  it  mean?"  she  asked.  "Please  tell 
me." 

"What  does  it  matter?"  he  returned.  "We 
come  and  go.  We  have  lived  and  shall  live.  Why 
cannot  we  learn  wisdom?  " 

She  had  leaned  nearer  to  him.     He  drew  away. 

"  You  are  changed,"  she  said,  not  accusingly, 
but  as  stating  a  simple  fact. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "I  am  changed." 

"  Your  grandfather  has  been  talking  to  you," 
she  said.  "  He  has  told  you  half-truths.  You  see, 
he  thinks  he  understands  women  so  well.  He  has 
made  you  see  me  as  he  sees  me.  He  has  painted 
me  as  a  wanton;  shameless;  bad." 

"  I  have  no  interest  in  anything  my  grandfather 


BABYLON  197 

might  say,"  he  answered  coldly.  "  I  choose  for 
myself;  think  for  myself." 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  You  have  been  biassed,  or 
you  would  not  seem  so  different.  I  was  frank  with 
you.  I  told  you  I  was  not  a  normal  woman.  I 
did  not  think  you  cared  for  mere  details." 

"  A  husband  is  not  a  mere  detail,"  he  said  drily. 

"  What  does  the  past  matter?  "  she  asked  swiftly. 
"  There  is  all  the  glorious  future  —  and  you  worry 
about  dead  years." 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  I  am  not  worrying.  But  I 
do  not  believe  in  repeating  mistakes,  whatever  the 
temptation.  One  has  to  foresee  the  future,  and 
the  future  is  not  always  glorious." 

She  looked  at  his  face  in  the  moonlight:  pale, 
resolute. 

"  You  have  seen  something,"  she  said.  "  My 
dream  —  the  darkness.  Why  don't  you  tell  me? 
You  are  not  fair.  I  am  not  afraid.  What  must 
be,  must." 

"  You  are  wrong,"  he  said.  "  The  future  is  only 
unchangeable  when  one  accepts  it."  He  rose.  "  I 
do  not  wish  to  talk  to-night,"  he  said.  "  Shall  we 
go  back  ?  " 

She  stood  beside  him.  Suddenly,  her  arms  were 
round  his  neck,  her  lips  on  his.  He  did  not  move; 
made  no  response ;  waited.  For  minutes,  they  stood 
so.  Then,  with  a  cry  of  pain,  she  drew  away  from 
him,  and  they  went  back  to  the  house. 


PAKT    III 
THE    PIT 


PART   III 
THE    PIT 

CHAPTER   I 

MISS  SANDS  —  amiable  and  admirable 
woman  —  had  been  Ward's  housekeeper 
since  the  second  month  after  his  establish- 
ment in  the  Newchurch  district.  She  had  never 
failed  to  nourish  him  with  affectionate  care  and  the 
proper  proportion  of  proteids,  phosphates,  carbo- 
hydrates and  hydro-carbons.  Meal  times  were 
somewhat  irregular  when  the  doctor  was  busy;  but 
her  punctual  observance  of  these  unpunctual  hours 
was  remarkable.  Food  was  the  subtle  instrument 
from  which  she  extracted  perfect  harmony.  There 
was  no  bad  cooking,  and  no  discord,  in  that  serenely 
ordered  household.  However  unexpected  the  de- 
mand might  seem,  she  rarely  permitted  herself  to 
be  unprepared;  and  on  the  few  occasions  when  her 
foresight  had  failed,  her  resourcefulness  carried  her 
nobly  to  new  triumphs.  She  could  extemporize  in 
dinners  as  a  maestro  in  melodies.  There  was  clarity 
in  her  soup,  lightness  in  her  fish,  delicacy  in  her 


202  THE    PIT 

mutton,  firmness  yet  tenderness  in  her  beef,  superb 
simplicity  in  her  vegetables,  and  inspiration  in  her 
chickens.  Her  coffee  was  good. 

It  is  necessary  to  mention  these  details  in  order 
to  show  that  Miss  Sands,  though  a  woman,  was 
domestic,  and  though  domestic,  idealistic.  For 
Ward,  in  spite  of  his  home  traditions,  was  suffi- 
ciently Caesarian  —  until  her  influence  redeemed  him 
—  to  dine  contentedly  on  the  memory  of  lunch,  and 
sup  on  bread  and  water.  With  something  of  Spar- 
tan contempt  for  the  epicure  or  student  of  menus, 
he  had  eaten  merely  that  he  might  live.  Miss  Sands, 
however,  had  revealed  to  him  the  importance  of 
perfection.  If  it  be  desirable  to  live,  it  is  desirable 
to  live  with  all  the  senses  —  so  far  as  personal 
effort  may  aid  —  unclogged,  energized,  alert.  If  it 
be  desirable  to  eat  at  all,  it  is  desirable  to  eat 
with  devotion.  He  ate.  Miss  Sands  supplied  the 
devotion. 

Mr.  Balding,  publican  and  churchwarden,  was 
also  offering  devotion.  He  wished  to  supply  Miss 
Sands.  Pink,  corpulent,  prosperous,  he  was  cer- 
tainly far  remote  from  that  famous  prototype  who 
filled  with  nectar  the  cups  of  the  gods.  The  nectar 
supplied  by  Mr.  Balding  was  less  ethereal,  though 
not  less  intoxicating.  But  the  little  man  was  es- 
teemed by  all  who  knew  him.  Experience  had  made 
him  wise:  he  was  just,  yet  gentle;  sincere,  yet  tact- 
ful. Though  his  speech  was  occasionally  imperfect, 


THE    PIT 

his  honour  was  unimpeachable.  Without  being 
pompous,  he  had  dignity.  Without  being  conceited, 
he  had  confidence.  Without  being  arrogant  or 
apologetic,  he  had  a  sister. 

It  was  this  point,  capably  appreciated,  which 
perplexed  Miss  Sands  —  in  addition  to  other  peri 
plexities.  She  had  grave  doubts  with  regard  to 
Miss  Balding  —  not  as  a  woman  and  a  sister,  but 
as  a  sister-in-law.  Balding  himself,  she  liked;  she 
had  become  accustomed  to  the  self-reliant,  unob- 
trusive churchwarden.  Friendship  is  a  habit,  and 
she  had  cultivated  that  habit.  Gradually,  she  had 
ceased  to  notice  the  little  man's  deficiencies,  while 
his  genuineness  and  simple  force  of  character  re- 
vealed themselves  more  and  more  clearly.  She  be- 
came used  to  him:  soon,  she  became  almost  fond 
of  him.  The  conditions  of  their  early  training  had 
been  very  different,  but  Miss  Sands  had  observed 
that  many  polished  gentlemen  were  so  pleasantly 
occupied  in  making  their  wives  miserable,  that  they 
forgot  to  radiate  serenity  in  their  homes.  Besides, 
she  had  reached  a  mature  age,  and  no  gentleman 
of  charm  and  distinction  had  yet  entreated  her  to 
share  his  name  and  monopolize  his  affections.  The 
years  had  passed,  and  were  passing;  she  had  out- 
grown the  craving  for  glitter:  a  quiet  domestic  life, 
with  a  quiet  domestic  husband,  was  the  limit  of  her 
ambition.  She  was  therefore  neither  shocked  nor 
displeased  when  Balding  suggested  that  he  might 


204  THE    PIT 

sell  the  inn  and  the  grocery  store  and  buy  or  con- 
struct a  habitable  house,  with  a  veranda,  a  garden, 
and  a  pianola,  if  she  would  only  —  but  of  course 
it  was  impossible  — 

Miss  Sands  could  give  him  no  passionate  encour- 
agement; but  when  she  considered  the  sum  of  their 
ages,  and  the  difference  of  their  waist  measurements, 
she  realized  that  they  might  be  happy  without  being 
ardent.  Even  on  the  pianola  plane  of  existence, 
there  were  compensations.  In  her  own  home,  with 
her  own  husband  and  her  own  way,  she  could  regard 
the  passing  of  the  days  with  composure  and  con-* 
tent;  whatever  the  future  might  bring,  she  could 
face  it  without  the  feeling  of  dependence  and  help- 
lessness. Fond  as  she  was  of  Dr.  Ward,  he  was 
her  employer,  though  her  friend.  She  was  no  longer 
young:  it  would  be  foolish  to  undervalue  a  hus- 
band. As  her  chance  had  been  delayed  so  long, 
even  the  monotony  of  an  ordinary  marriage  would 
be  a  novelty  to  her.  She  knew  that  she  had  un- 
usual gifts:  she  would  use  them.  Age  might  wither 
gradually  her  charm  of  feature  and  form,  but  cus- 
tom should  not  stale  her  infinite  variety  of  resource. 
She  believed  in  her  power  to  idealize  the  common- 
place. Balding  was  commonplace.  She  would  ideal- 
ize him. 

But  could  she  idealize  his  sister?  Miss  Balding 
had  lived  with  her  brother  for  many  years;  she 
had  no  other  near  relatives.  All  her  interests  were 


THE    PIT  205 

centred  in  the  district.  To  expect  her,  now,  to 
change  her  mode  of  life  would  be  almost  an  out- 
rage. Yet  the  privacy  of  marriage  cannot  be  lightly 
surrendered.  Miss  Sands  contemplated  regretfully 
the  prospect  of  two  women  in  one  house,  on  terms 
of  perpetual  intimacy,  but  perhaps  without  sym- 
pathy or  affection.  Had  she  the  right  to  risk  a 
situation  so  hazardous  and  unusual? 

She  determined  to  study  Miss  Balding  before 
taking  an  irrevocable  step;  to  probe  her  disposi- 
tion and  discover  as  completely  as  possible  her 
character  and  inclinations.  It  was  natural  that 
she  should,  at  the  same  time,  innocently  display 
her  own  strongest  points.  It  occurred  to  her 
that  a  little  dinner  would  provide  the  most  suit- 
able opportunity.  She  considered  the  idea,  am- 
ply; approved  it;  proceeded  to  carry  it  into 
effect. 

Dr.  Lyster,  the  locum  tenens,  was  a  methodical 
man,  and  had  the  excellent  habit  of  keeping  a 
methodical  register  of  engagements.  Brief  but  lucid 
details,  recorded  in  a  desk-diary,  made  it  possible 
to  trace  him  in  any  emergency.  Miss  Sands,  con- 
sulting the  diary  on  Monday,  found  that  he  had 
arranged  to  dine  at  the  vicarage  on  the  ensuing 
Wednesday.  Promptly,  she  issued  cordial  invita- 
tions—  which  were  accepted  —  to  Mr.  and  Miss 
Balding;  and  devised  a  dinner  that  should  do  jus- 
tice to  her  genius. 


206  THE    PIT 

Wednesday  evening  arrived;  Dr.  Lyster  de- 
parted. Miss  Sands,  after  supervising  the  kitchen 
preparations,  had  dressed  to  receive  her  guests: 
now,  she  awaited  them.  Occasionally,  cool  and  com- 
posed, she  strayed  to  the  kitchen,  where  her  under- 
study kept  faithful  vigil. 

At  this  juncture,  Ward,  returning  from  Dav-. 
entry,  quietly  appeared  —  unannounced,  unexpected ; 
and,  for  this  one  evening,  absolutely  undesired.  He 
had  walked  up  from  the  station;  entered,  as  usual, 
through  the  surgery;  and  passed  on  into  the  hall. 
There,  he  paused,  aware  of  the  odour  of  cooking: 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  detect,  specially  and 
separately,  the  aroma  of  plump  chickens  delicately 
browning  — 

Miss  Sands,  emerging  from  the  kitchen,  perceived 
him.  For  one  brief  moment,  anguish  possessed  her. 
How  would  his  arrival  affect  her  dinner?  How 
could  she  explain  to  him  that  she  had  invited  her 
friends  to  visit  his  house,  occupy  his  dining-room, 
regale  themselves  with  his  provisions  —  ? 

"  Oh !  "  she  said  weakly. 

"  You  did  n't  expect  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.     "  I  certainly  did  n't." 

"I  will*go  up  and  wash,"  he  said.  "The  at- 
mosphere of  the  Smokeries  is  undeniably  opaque. 
But  I  am  glad  to  be  back  again."  He  paused 
on  the  first  step.  "  Is  Dr.  Lyster  in  ?  " 

"  He  is  dining  at  the  vicarage  to-night,"  she  re- 


THE    PIT  207 

plied,  thinking  ruefully  of  the  little  affair  she  had 
planned  in  consequence  of  that  engagement. 

Ward  went  upstairs. 

The  front  door  bell  rang. 

Miss  Sands,  without  forming  any  new  scheme  of 
action,  responded  mechanically.  She  opened  the 
door.  Mr.  Balding,  carefully  dressed,  very  pink, 
and  alone,  revealed  himself.  Removing  his  hat,  he 
entered. 

"  My  sister,"  he  explained,  "  had  a  headache,  I 
am  sorry  to  say;  a  very  severe  headache.  She 
sends  her  kind  regards,  and  will  you  please  excuse 
her?  —  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Miss  Sands:  she  eats 
too  much  and  walks  too  little,  and  that 's  the  real 
truth.  But  of  course  I  could  n't  tell  her.  She  M 
be  that  worrited  goodness  knows  what  'd  happen. 
So  I  j  ust  came  along  myself,  hoping  you  would  n't 
mind." 

Miss  Sands  regarded  him  sadly.  "  It 's  a  pity," 
she  said.  "  I  'd  been  looking  forward  so  much  to 
meeting  her  —  and  you.  But  it  would  n't  quite  do, 
I'm  afraid,  for  us  to  dine  alone  —  just  you  and  I, 
without  a  chaperon,  you  know.  It  seems  silly,  of 
course,  but  it  's  a  wise  rule  for  eight  people  out 
of  ten,  and  those  who  don't  need  it  must  put  up 
with  it  for  the  sake  of  those  who  do." 

Balding,  though  disappointed,  offered  no  protest. 
"  You  're  quite  right,"  he  said.  "  Quite  right.  I 
ought  to  have  thought  of  that,  but  what  with  being 


208  THE    PIT 

busy,  and  then  that  headache  coming  like  a  bolt 
from  —  from  —  "  He  filled  in  the  blank  resource- 
fully with  a  wave  of  his  hand  —  "I  was  all  of  a 
flutter,  in  a  manner  of  speaking.  But  you  're  right, 
Miss  Sands.  I  see  that  clearly.  May  be,  some 
other  time  — "  He  paused,  and  glanced  at  the 
stairs,  which  Ward  was  now  descending. 

"  It 's  Dr.  Ward,"  Miss  Sand*  whispered.  "  He  's 
just  come  home,  unexpectedly." 

"  Then  I  won't  stay,"  Balding  returned  hastily, 
realizing  that  the  doctor's  return  might  have  had 
something  to  do  with  Miss  Sands'  views  of  a  dinner 
without  a  duenna.  "  I  '11  just  —  " 

But  Ward  had  perceived  him. 

"Why,  Balding!"  he  said. 

"  I  just  called,"  the  churchwarden  explained,  "  to 
consult  Miss  Sands  about  —  er  —  a  little  church 
matter,  in  a  manner  of  speaking.  But  I  'm  glad 
to  see  you  back,  sir,  and  I  hope  you  've  had 
a  pleasant  change.  I  '11  wish  you  good  evening, 
sir." 

"  Better  stay  and  have  dinner  with  me,"  Ward 
said.  "  Very  pleased  if  you  will.  You  can  tell  me 
all  the  news,  you  know.  Miss  Sands  will  find  some- 
thing for  us,  I  daresay.  She 's  wonderful,  Bald- 
ing. No  matter  what  time  I  come  in,  or  however 
unexpected  I  may  be,  she  can  always  rise  to  the 
occasion."  He  sniffed,  discerningly.  "  Let  me  hang 
your  hat  up.  In  five  minutes,  I  assure  you  —  I 


THE    PIT  209 

speak  from  experience  —  dinner  will  be  ready.  — 
Miss  Sands,  you  will  join  us  to-night,  I  hope?  " 

Miss  Sands,  murmuring  that  she  would,  retreated 
to  the  kitchen,  avoiding  the  eye  of  the  pink  church- 
warden. 

The  doctor  took  his  guest  into  the  study.  In 
five  minutes,  as  he  had  confidently  foretold,  dinner 
was  served.  Accustomed  as  he  was  to  her  achieve- 
ments, he  was  a  trifle  surprised  at  the  way  in  which 
Miss  Sands  welcomed  him. 

"  Conceive  it,  Balding,"  he  said.  "  I  was  totally 
unexpected,  and  yet  this  is  the  kind  of  thing 
she  provides  without  an  effort.  How  does  she 
manage  it?  I  confess  I  cannot  understand  it  at 
all." 

"  It 's  a  gift,"  the  churchwarden  said.  "  That 's 
what  it  is  —  a  gift.  I  'm  mighty  glad  I  —  er  — 
happened  to  call.  Mighty  glad." 

He  did  not  look  at  Miss  Sands. 

"  And  now,"  Ward  said,  "  tell  me  all  the  news, 
Balding.  How  is  the  vicar?  " 

The  churchwarden  shook  his  head,  ominously. 
"  I  'm  afraid  he  's  aging,"  he  said.  "  Yes,  in  a 
manner  of  speaking,  I  'm  afraid  he  's  aging." 

"  One  must  expect  that,"  Ward  said,  "  when  one 
is  old.  And  the  vicar  is  old,  Balding." 

"  Aye ;  but  he  's  older  than  he  was,  and  he  shows 
it,  sir.  Times,  he 's  absent-minded,  and  times,  he 
seems  sad,  as  if  he  was  brooding  over  something 


210  THE    PIT 

that  hurt.  —  They  do  say,"  he  added,  "that  Mr. 
Harold  is  coming  home  again,  from  foreign  parts." 

"  Who  has  said  so?  "  Ward  asked. 

For  a  moment,  the  churchwarden  hesitated. 
"  Well,"  he  replied,  "  I  can't  say,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  that  anyone  9s  told  me.  But  there  've 
been  letters,  with  foreign  stamps  on  them  —  " 

Ward  remembered  that  Balding  included,  in  his 
various  duties,  those  of  village  postmaster.  He 
smiled  as  he  thought  of  the  careful  inspection  that 
the  mail  evidently  received. 

"  But  you  cannot  tell  what  was  in  the  letters, 
merely  from  the  stamps  on  the  outside,"  he  suggested. 

"  There  were  postcards  as  well,"  Balding  said, 
with  simple  frankness. 

Ward  made  no  direct  comment. 

"  The  vicar  ought  to  look  younger  if  his  son 
is  coming  home  again;  not  older,"  he  observed. 

"Yes,"  Balding  agreed.  "He  ought.  But  he 
does  n't.  It 's  my  opinion  he 's  brooding  about 
something;  just  brooding,  that's  what  it  is.  I 
tell  you,  sir,  it  hurts  me  to  see  him  come  into  the 
vestry  of  a  Sunday  evening,  so  slow  and  feeble,  and 
with  that  look  in  his  eyes  as  if  he  was  n't  there  at 
all.  And  when  he  preaches,  it 's  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  creepy,  and  that 's  the  real  truth.  I  'm 
not  the  only  one  that 's  noticed  it.  He  '11  stand  up 
in  the  pulpit  for  all  the  world  as  if  he  was  blind 
and  did  n't  see  the  congregation.  Right  through 


THE    PIT  211 

them  he  looks,  as  if  he  was  talking  to  their  shadows, 
or  their  ghosts,  may  be.  And  his  sermons  are  dif- 
ferent from  what  they  used  to  be.  There  's  some- 
thing in  them  that  I  can't  rightly  make  out.  Miss 
Sands,  she  's  noticed  it." 

He  looked  enquiringly  at  the  housekeeper. 

"  Yes,"  she  admitted.  "  I  have  noticed.  There 
certainly  is  something  almost  creepy  in  the  way 
he  's  been  preaching  lately." 

"  There  's  some  as  say,"  the  churchwarden  con- 
tinued, "  that  a  great  and  wonderful  change  has 
come  over  him.  Good,  he  always  was,  but  so  gentle, 
and  so  forgiving.  And  now,  it 's  like  as  if  the  mantle 
of  the  Lord  had  descended  upon  him,  with  the  gift 
of  awful  words.  *  Go,  and  sin  no  more,'  was  his 
text  last  Sunday;  and  oh,  but  he  made  us  feel  it! 
There  was  some  of  the  women  sobbing  —  was  n't 
there,  Miss  Sands  ?  —  and  there  was  some  of  the 
men  that  felt  like  it ;  and  that  I  know.  And  at  the 
end  he  just  repeated  his  text:  'Go,  and  sin  no 
more,'  and  he  lifted  his  hands.  *  For  the  wages  of 
sin  is  death,'  he  said.  Just  that;  and  I  tell  you, 
it  seemed  as  if  Death  was  in  the  church,  so  silent 
it  was,  and  so  awesome." 

The  little  churchwarden  had  succumbed  to  his  own 
graphic  description:  his  voice  was  hushed;  he 
looked  round,  timorously,  yet  with  shining  eyes. 
Ward,  with  a  feeling  that  he  was  committing  sacri- 
lege, pressed  him  to  take  some  more  mutton. 


212  THE    PIT 

"And  Mr.  Morrison?"  he  asked.  "Has  he  also 
been  numbered  with  the  prophets  since  I  went 
away  ?  " 

"  Well,"  Balding  answered,  "  I  can't  rightly  say. 
There  's  a  change  in  him  too,  but  it 's  not  quite 
the  same  sort  of  change.  He  's  cheerful,  Mr.  Mor- 
rison is,  as  he  always  has  been,  and  that 's  what  's 
made  him  liked,  yes,  and  loved.  Yet  he  's  different. 
For  one  thing,  he  looks  pale  —  " 

"  His  complexion  was  never  violently  vermilion," 
Ward  interposed. 

"That's  so,"  Balding  agreed.  "But  it  isn't 
a  healthy  pale  that  he  looks  now ;  it 's  a  melancholy 
pale.  He  looks  worried ;  that 's  what  it  is.  I 
should  n't  wonder,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  if  he 
had  n't  fallen  in  love.  Love,"  he  continued,  gazing 
deliberately  at  Miss  Sands,  "  plays  havoc  with  some 
men,  and  that 's  the  real  truth."  He  paused  for 
a  moment.  "  There 's  young  Harry  Poole,  now, 
that 's  been  made  under-manager  at  the  Chayle  col- 
liery, and  a  smart  young  man,  too.  He  's  in  love. 
Anybody  could  tell  that.  But  he  does  n't  take  it 
the  same  way  as  Mr.  Morrison.  He  Js  happy ;  and 
that 's  a  very  different  thing  from  trying  to  seem 
cheerful.  He 's  full  of  life  and  vigour,  Poole  is. 
He's  a  hopeful  kind  of  look  on  him.  He's  sure 
of  his  sweetheart  and  he  's  thinking  of  a  home  of 
his  own,  with  somebody  in  it  to  welcome  him  when 
he 's  through  with  his  work.  And  that  makes  a 


THE    PIT  213 

difference  to  a  man.  It 's  when  you  're  doubtful, 
and  the  straight  path  ahead  seems  crooked,  some- 
how, that  you  begin  to  wear  a  worried  look,  like 
Mr.  Morrison  does."  Melancholy,  carefully  con- 
trived, sat  on  his  own  countenance. 

"  I  like  Poole,"  Ward  remarked.  "  He  's  a  bright, 
clever  lad.  Whom  is  he  going  to  marry,  Balding 
—  if  it  is  n't  a  post-office  secret?  " 

"  Well,  I  rather  fancy,"  the  churchwarden  said, 
"  that  it 's  Miss  Heath." 

"  What?     Alice?  "  Miss  Sands  asked. 

"  Miss  Lydia,  not  Miss  Alice,"  Balding  explained. 
"  And  a  bright,  pleasant,  sensible  young  lady,  too, 
that  will  make  a  rare  good  wife.  And  wives  like 
that  are  n't  as  thick  as  berries,"  he  added,  thought- 
fully. "  When  a  man  gets  a  wife  like  Miss  Lydia, 
he  ought  to  be  proud  and  grateful ;  that 's  what 
he  ought  to  be."  He  was  about  to  sigh,  when  he 
perceived  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  on  Miss  Sands' 
mobile  lips.  Responsively,  he  became  cheerful. 
Melancholy  fled  from  him.  He  began  to  chat  lightly 
of  the  small  happenings  of  the  district,  choosing 
the  more  whimsical  details  and  disclosing  a  shrewd 
sense  of  humour.  Ward,  with  an  abrupt  question, 
recalled  him  to  serious  topics. 

"How  does  Mrs.  Harrington  seem?"  he  asked. 
"  Has  she  been  to  church  lately  ?  " 

"  Every  Sunday,"  Balding  answered.  He  low- 
ered his  voice,  remembering  that  her  life  had  been 


214  THE    PIT 

associated  with  tragedy.  "  She  's  another  that  's 
changed,"  he  said.  "  Of  course,  we  know  why  — 
losing  her  boy,  and  all  that.  But  there  's  some- 
thing in  her  face  that  I  can't  hardly  tell  you. 
Times,  she  's  sad,  and  you  can  tell  what  she  's  think- 
ing about,  and  then  again,  there  's  times  when  I  've 
seen  her  smile,  in  a  manner  of  speaking  —  just  the 
palest,  thinnest  kind  of  a  smile.  She  '11  sit  and  look 
at  the  vicar  when  he  's  preaching,  and  the  vicar,  he  '11 
look  through  her  and  away  beyond,  and  never  know 
she  's  there.  And  when  he  lifts  his  voice  and  calls 
not  the  righteous  but  sinners  to  repentance;  or 
when  he  lowers  his  voice  —  and  yet  speaks  so  clear 
and  distinct  —  and  says  the  wages  of  sin  is  death, 
so  that  your  blood  creeps,  as  if  the  angels  and 
archangels  was  hovering  with  drawn  swords  round 
your  head,  —  it 's  then  she  '11  smile  in  that  fixed, 
wan  sort  of  way,  as  if  she  knew  what  he  meant  as 
well  as  he  did  himself,  and  better,  perhaps.  But 
there 's  something  more,  as  I  was  saying,  that  I 
can't  hardly  make  out.  First  I  thought  it  was  like 
as  if  she  'd  tied  something  round  her  heart,  to  stop 
it  breaking,  and  then  I  thought  it  was  as  if  she 
was  seeing  things  that  the  Lord  hath  kept  hidden 
from  ordinary  people  —  like  the  meaning  of  sorrow, 
and  visiting  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the  chil- 
dren, unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation  —  " 

"  These  chickens,"  Ward  observed,  "  are  worthy 
even  of  your  genius,  Miss   Sands."     He   dissected 


THE    PIT  215 

one,  with  surgical  ease.  Gradually,  the  conversa- 
tion drifted  into  lighter  channels  again. 

Balding  did  not  linger  unduly,  after  dinner  was 
over.  He  smoked  one  of  Ward's  cigars,  apprecia- 
tively; drank  Miss  Sands'  coffee,  resignedly,  not 
knowing  that  it  was  beyond  praise;  and  declared 
that  he  must  go.  Ward,  glad  to  be  back  in  the 
place  that  he  had  chosen  as  his  real  home,  had  the 
desire  of  a  returned  wanderer  to  retrace  familiar 
paths  and  view  again,  even  in  the  dimness  of  the 
night,  the  scenes  interwoven  with  so  many  memories. 
He  went  out  with  the  churchwarden  and  walked  the 
greater  part  of  the  way  to  Newchurch.  As  he 
came  back,  he  passed  the  little  cottage  where  Lydia 
and  Alice  Heath  had  lived  since  their  father's  death. 
The  lower  storey  was  in  darkness;  but  upstairs,  in 
the  bedroom  which  they  shared,  there  was  still  a 
light.  He  saw  on  the  blind  the  shadow  of  a  lifted 
arm. 

As  he  walked  on,  he  contrasted  the  simple,  labori- 
ous lives  of  these  girls  with  the  idleness  and  hedon- 
ism of  some  of  the  women  whom  he  had  met  at 
Daventry.  Lydia  Heath  had  her  trying  day's  task 
as  a  school  teacher  and  her  continued  work  at  night 
in  preparation  for  the  morrow:  Alice  had  her  long 
round  of  scantly-paid  music  lessons;  her  tiring 
tramps  in  all  weathers,  to  save  train  and  car  fares; 
and  her  necessary  practising.  Both  had,  in  addi- 
tion, the  domestic  work  of  the  cottage ;  the  cleaning 


216  THE    PIT 

and  washing;  the  mending,  contriving  and  altering 
of  clothes.  Yet  they  remained  cheerful  and  con- 
tented, finding  their  modest  pleasure  in  the  little 
social  reunions  of  the  district,  and  moving  serenely 
and  purely,  though  not  uncomprehendingly,  through 
surroundings  often  sad  and  sordid.  Were  they  less 
subtle,  he  wondered,  than  women  like  Lady  Winter; 
were  their  sensations  more  obtuse  and  primitive; 
did  they  suffer  less  acutely,  and  feel  even  joy  less 
keenly,  than  those  who  considered  themselves  more 
finely  moulded,  more  delicately  organized,  more 
intensely  and  perplexingly  emotional?  He  doubted, 
knowing  that  mere  neurotic  waywardness  is  often 
mistaken  for  subtlety  of  intellect  and  character. 

In  the  bedroom,  Lydia,  clothed  with  grace,  but 
with  very  little  else,  was  imprisoning  her  hair  deftly 
with  celluloid  hairpins.  Alice  had  already  com- 
pleted that  disfiguring  process;  a  little  rotund  as 
to  the  head,  she  sat,  white-gowned,  by  the  lamp, 
reading  her  nightly  chapter  from  the  Bible.  She 
had  come  to  St.  Matthew's  account  of  the  sacrifice 
of  John  the  Baptist:  familiar  as  it  was,  the  grue- 
some story  awed  her.  Ignorant  of  Maude  Allan 
and  Gertrude  Hoffmann,  she  pictured  the  bewilder- 
ing dancing  of  Salome;  the  sensuous  wine-frenzy 
of  the  Court;  the  oath  and  sudden  silence  of  the 
King.  She  thought  of  the  swift  tragedy  in  the 
cell;  of  the  bloody  dismemberment,  the  dripping 


THE    PIT  217 

head  — "  And  he  sent,  and  beheaded  John  in  the 
prison  "...  Shuddering,  she  closed  the  Book,  and 
kneeling,  commenced  her  prayers. 

"  I  wonder,"  Lydia  said,  "  whether  it  is  really 
true  that  Mr.  Balding  is  going  to  marry  Miss 
Sands  ?  Harry  says  he  's  almost  absolutely  sure 
Mr.  Balding 's  head  over  heels  in  love.  It  seems 
absurd,  at  his  age.  And  he  is  n't  romantic,  is  he? 
I  don't  think  Miss  Sands  could  really  think  of 
marrying  him.  I  expect  she 's  just  thinking  of 
marriage,  and  feeling  sort  of  out  of  it.  She  can't 
help  that.  But  I  don't  think  she  'd  leave  a  man 
like  Dr.  Ward  for  a  fattish  sort  of  man  like  Mr. 
Balding.  Do  you?  " 

Alice,  finishing  the  Lord's  Prayer,  tried  earnestly 
not  to  hear  these  distracting  remarks. 

"  I  suppose  Dr.  Ward  would  be  cross  if  he  found 
he  was  going  to  lose  his  housekeeper  as  soon  as  he 
got  back,"  Lydia  continued.  "  I  wonder  when  he 
will  come  back?  It  must  be  nice  to  have  friends 
like  his,  and  heaps  of  money,  and  a  home  that  your 
family  have  lived  in  since  caves  went  out  of  fashion 
—  a  home  full  of  beautiful  things  that  it 's  taken 
centuries  to  get  together.  It  seems  as  if  it  would 
take  us  centuries  to  get  very  little  together,  does  n't 
it?  —  If  I  were  to  become  really  rich  all  at  once, 
do  you  know  what  I  should  do,  first  thing?  I 
should  just  go  out  and  have  a  horrid,  wicked, 
disgusting  gorge  on  ice-cream.  I  know  I  should. 


218  THE    PIT 

I've  been  pining  for  ice-cream  for  weeks;  haven't 
you?  " 

Alice,  with  a  protesting  wriggle  of  one  leg,  con- 
tinued her  devotions ;  but  concentration  was  difficult. 

The  silence  seemed  pointed  and  Lydia  turned 
round  enquiringly.  Perceiving  Alice  kneeling,  she 
rebuked  herself  for  thrusting  ice-cream  into  sacred 
meditations.  By  the  time  her  sister  rose  to  her 
feet,  Lydia,  robed  and  serene,  was  saying  her 
prayers  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed.  When  she 
also  had  finished,  she  put  out '  the  lamp,  drew  up 
the  blind,  opened  the  window,  and  then  quietly  lay 
down  in  her  place. 

It  was  a  windless  night.  The  silence  seemed  pro- 
found. Yet,  at  moments,  there  was  a  faint  mur- 
mur —  the  blended  tumult  of  collieries  and  iron- 
works, beaten  into  thinness  by  distance. 

After  a  little  while,  Lydia,  stretching  out  her 
hand,  found  and  imprisoned  Alice's  fingers.  So 
they  rested,  till  thought  overflowed  in  speech. 

"Alice?" 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"  I  'm  so  happy." 

"I'm  so  glad." 

There  was  a  brief  pause. 

"Alice?" 

"Yes?" 

"  I  did  n't  know  that  anybody  could  ever  He  quite 
so  happy.  Is  n't  it  wonderful?  " 


THE    PIT  219 

Alice  pressed  her  sister's  hand. 

"  And  I  used  to  be  so  different  —  so  irritable, 
and  snappy,  and  contradictory,  and  horrid  — " 

"No,  you  weren't,  dear." 

"  I  was !  "  wailed  Lydia.  "  Don't  you  remember 
that  evening  when  you  wanted  tinned  lobster  for 
supper,  and  I  said  it  would  give  you  indigestion, 
and  you  said  it  would  n't,  and  I  said  it  would,  and 
you  could  please  yourself  and  be  horrid  if  you 
liked?  And  you  ate  it,  and  I  sulked,  and  we  did  n't 
even  say  good-night.  And  how  we  could  say  our 
prayers  I  don't  know !  " 

"  Well,  it  did  give  me  indigestion,"  said  Alice 
soothingly.  "  I  had  a  horrid  night  and  all  sorts 
of  crawly  dreams.  So  you  were  quite  right." 

"  No,  I  was  n't.  I  was  horrid  about  it.  Why 
should  n't  you  have  indigestion,  if  you  wanted  to, 
and  crawly  dreams  as  well  ?  I  need  n't  go  and  spoil 
it  all  out  of  pure  selfishness." 

"  You  only  tried  to  save  me  from  being  ill." 

"  I  did  n't.  I  hoped  you  'd  be  ill.  I  wanted  you 
to  eat  the  lobster  and  be  as  ill  as  anything,  just 
to  show  you  that  I  was  right  when  I  said  you  would 
be.  I  was  wicked." 

Alice  laughed. 

"  I  was,'''  Lydia  persisted.  "  And  then  there  was 
that  time  when  you  asked  me  to  trim  your  hat,  and 
I  would  n't,  and  said  *  trim  it  yourself,'  simply  be- 
cause I  'd  got  tired  in  school  and  felt  upset.  That 


220  THE    PIT 

was  n't  your  fault,  and  you  can't  say  it  was,  and 
I  was  horrid  again." 

"  But  why  should  n't  I  trim  my  own  hat,  after 
all?" 

"Why?  Because  it  was  my  place  to  trim  it, 
and  I  ought  to  have  been  ashamed  of  myself.  You 
know  I  can  do  that  kind  of  thing  better  than  you 
can,  just  as  you  are  cleverer  in  cooking,  and  mak- 
ing pastry,  and  with  your  violin,  and  with  custards 
and  all  kinds  of  things." 

"  But  you  did  trim  the  hat  for  me,  you  know," 
Alice  pointed  out. 

"  Yes,  but  not  till  I  'd  been  horrid  about  it." 

"  I  did  n't  think  you  were  horrid.  I  knew  you 
were  only  tired." 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  be  horrid  again," 
Lydia  said  dreamily.  "  And  I  feel  so  ashamed  of 
all  the  silly  and  bad-tempered  and  careless  things 
I  have  ever  done.  They  don't  seem  to  belong  to 
me,  somehow,  now.  Dear,  life  is  so  wonderful,  and 
full  of  a  feeling  that  is  like  music,  only  there  is 
colour  in  it  as  well.  I  have  such  beautiful  thoughts, 
without  trying  to  think  them  at  all.  They  just 
come.  Things  that  have  often  puzzled  me  don't 
appear  important  any  more.  It  is  a  good,  bright 
world,  not  a  sad  and  evil  one.  The  little  things 
that  used  to  bother  one  —  pain,  and  being  tired, 
and  having  to  see  so  much  suffering  —  dear,  they 
are  almost  blotted  out.  It  is  n't  that  one  is  merely 


THE    PIT  221 

selfish.  But  the  doubts  have  gone.  He  Who  made 
women  capable  of  such  exquisite  j  oy  —  surely  He 
cannot  make  mistakes!  Whatever  He  does,  must 
be  well  done.  He  knows.  He  knows  how  I  feel 
now.  He  knows  what  love  means.  He  created 
love." 

Alice  was  silent.  She  had  never  heard  her  sister 
speak  like  this  before. 

"  There  are  some  people,"  Lydia  went  on,  "  who 
judge  men  by  the  clothes  they  wear,  and  their  boots, 
and  the  way  in  which  they  order  a  dinner  at  a 
restaurant  or  a  hotel.  I  can't  do  that.  I  want  a 
man  who  looks  manly  always,  in  rough  working 
clothes  as  well  as  in  a  new  suit  with  all  the  latest 
touches.  I  suppose  there  is  something  savage  and 
primitive  in  me,  Alice,  after  all;  for  I  can't  help 
despising  a  man  who  does  n't  look  as  if  he  could 
lift  things,  and  fight  if  he  had  to  fight,  and  dig, 
and  hunt,  and  grapple  with  the  dangers  that  na- 
ture hides,  till  she  lets  them  loose  suddenly.  And 
Harry  is  so  strong,  and  firm,  and  yet  so  gentle 
with  me  always.  I  went  up  to  the  colliery  once, 
and  saw  him;  and  he  was  grimy  and  stained,  but 
he  looked  so  masterful  and  full  of  power.  And  he 
is  a  gentleman,  Alice  —  in  his  thoughts  and  in  his 
ways;  not  just  a  working-man  who's  been  pro- 
moted because  he  'd  more  brains  than  the  others. 
You  won't  think  I'm  snobbish,  will  you?  I  like  a 
man  who  works,  but  some  of  the  people  who  call 


222  THE    PIT 

themselves  working-men,  and  talk  of  the  dignity 
of  labour,  seem  to  think  they  're  God's  equals  be- 
cause they  're  muddy  inside  and  out,  and  never  dream 
of  washing  the  mud  off."  She  stopped.  "  There, 
now !  I  'm  saying  horrid  things  again !  " 

Alice  ignored  the  self-accusation.  "  I  hope  you 
will  be  very  happy,"  she  whispered. 

"  Just  think,"  Lydia  whispered  back.  "  Only  next 
month.  And  we  shall  be  together  —  in  a  home  of 
our  own  —  and  yours,"  she  added,  almost  fiercely. 
"  Always  yours,  darling,  —  till  you  cannot  stay  any 
longer  because  somebody  else  wants  you  so  badly." 

There  was  silence  for  a  little  while.  Then  Lydia 
realized  that  Alice  was  crying. 

"  What  is  it,  darling?  "  she  asked,  drawing  her 
closer.  "I  haven't  hurt  you,  have  I?  Surely  I 
have  n't  said  anything  to  hurt  you?  You  know  I 
wouldn't  do  that,  dearie,  don't  you?" 

"  It  —  it  is  n't  you,"  Alice  sobbed. 

Lydia  took  her  in  her  arms.  "  Tell  me,  dear. 
Have  you  had  a  quarrel?  Is  that  it?  Is  that  why 
Mr.  Morrison  has  n't  called  this  week?  " 

"I  —  I  have  n't  quarrelled,"  Alice  said.  "  But 
he  —  he  has  n't  spoken  to  me  —  for  ten  days.  And 
—  yesterday  —  he  —  pretended  —  not  to  see  me. 
And  —  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do!" 

Perplexed  and  grieved,  the  girl  had  concealed  her 
sorrow  until  wise  and  kindly  nature  insisted  on  the 


THE    PIT  223 

relief  of  tears,  and  Lydia,  wise  also  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  love  had  taught  her,  forbore  further 
questioning. 

"  It  will  all  come  right,  dear,"  she  said.  "  It  will 
all  come  right." 

But  the  optimism  of  the  happy  seems  incredible 
to  the  stricken  and  sad-hearted.  One  can  conceive 
no  greater  darkness  than  that  of  the  unlit  night, 
until  one  has  descended  into  the  Pit. 


CHAPTER   II 

TWO  days  later,  the  curate  paid  an  unannounced 
visit  to  Ward,  who  had  not  seen  him  since 
his  return  from  Daventry.     Dr.  Lyster,  the 
locum  tenens,  had  gone,  and  Ward  was  alone  in  his 
surgery    when    Morrison,    finding    the    door    open, 
walked  in. 

"Busy?"  he  asked.  "You  know,  I  envy  you 
your  power  to  juggle  with  big  and  little  bottles 
and  look  wise,  as  if  you  understood  all  mysteries, 
chemical,  alembical  and  allotropical.  Whereas,  of 
course,  you  are  perfectly  ignorant  of  what  every- 
thing really  means  and  why  it  is  precisely  what  it 
is  n't,  and  is  n't  what  it  is.  But  don't  worry.  Go 
right  on  and  be  scientific.  And  by  the  way,  good- 
afternoon.  Hope  you  've  had  a  lazy,  happy  time, 
and  are  quite  prepared  for  a  rush  of  work.  You 
are  so  popular,  you  see,  that  now  you  've  come  back 
everyone  will  be  ill  for  a  little  while,  just  as  a  deli- 
cate compliment."  He  picked  up  a  bottle  of  black- 
currant lozenges  and  enquiringly  absorbed  two. 
"  Far  be  it  from  me,"  he  added,  "  to  suggest  that 
I  myself  have  come  to  ask  you  anything  or  to  ap- 
peal to  your  professional  skill.  But  whenever  — 


THE    PIT  225 

if  ever  —  you  have  a  few  days  or  weeks  to  spare 
and  can  concentrate  with  knitted  brows  upon  a 
peculiar  and  unparalleled  case  —  behold  your  vic- 
tim." He  absorbed  two  more  lozenges,  and  replaced 
the  bottle,  regretfully.  "  My  greatest  weakness," 
he  said.  "  I  have  for  black-currant  lozenges  the 
affection  that  other  great  men  —  notably  financiers 
—  reserve  for  objects  of  vertu,  if  they  are  suffi- 
ciently expensive  to  be  considered  interesting  or 
beautiful."  Ostentatiously,  he  put  down  a  penny^ 
"  No  wonder  you  get  rich,"  he  observed.  "  How 
does  it  feel  to  be  a  plutocrat?  " 

Ward  had  been  preparing  a  bottle  of  medicine. 
He  carefully  wrapped  it  up,  affixed  a  label,  and 
sealed  the  covering  with  wax. 

"That  is  the  longest  series  of  remarks  I  ever 
heard  you  make,"  he  said ;  "  unofficially,  of  course, 
and  pulpit-barred.  Better  come  into  the  other 
room  and  let  me  feel  your  pulse.  It  seems  to  me 
like  a  highly  complicated  and  dangerous  case  of 
humorous  degeneration  and  cerebral  paralysis." 

There  was  a  kindly  twinkle  in  his  eyes  as  he  led 
the  way  into  his  consulting  room;  but  he  had  seen 
that  Morrison  was  really  ill-at-ease  and  troubled, 
in  spite  of  his  chattering,  and  he  himself  was  not 
free  from  anxiety.  He  had  grown  very  fond  of  the 
alert  curate,  who  had  done  much  good  work  with- 
out parading  his  own  virtues  or  others'  vices.  He 
remembered  that  Balding  had  spoken  of  a  recent 


226  THE    PIT 

change  in  him,  of  a  "  melancholy  paleness "  and 
signs  of  worry.  He  would  be  sorry  indeed  if  his 
friend  had  discovered  any  signs  of  serious  organic 
weakness. 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said.  "  Now,  old  man,  what 's 
the  trouble?" 

"  Well,"  said  Morrison,  "  I  want  to  ask  you,  in 
the  first  place,  whether  a  man  can  reasonably  be 
considered  responsible  for  his  grandmother?  " 

"  That  depends,  I  think,"  Ward  answered  gravely, 
"  upon  whether  his  grandmother  was  reasonably  re- 
sponsible for  him." 

Morrison  nodded.  "  Excellently,  lucidly  and 
eugenically  put.  I  will  go  a  step  further.  What 
has  modern  science  to  say  about  "  —  he  hesitated 
almost  imperceptibly  —  "  epilepsy?  " 

"  Quite  a  lot,"  Ward  replied.  He  waved  his  hand 
toward  his  book-shelves.  "  I  have  there  three  vol- 
umes, fat  and  well-nourished,  devoted  exclusively  to 
that  fascinating  subject.  They  are  at  your  dis- 
posal at  any  time  when  you  feel  that  you  would 
like  a  little  light  reading." 

"  It  is  generally  understood  to  be  hereditary," 
Morrison  said,  ignoring  the  invitation ;  "  to  pass 
through  the  different  generations  of  a  family.  Is 
that  so,  without  doubt  ?  " 

"  Let  us  get  this  case  clearly,"  Ward  said.  "  I 
gather  that  you  have  a  strong  desire  —  a  yearning 
—  to  cultivate  epilepsy  as  an  amusement,  and  be- 


THE    PIT  227 

fore  yielding  to  that  craving,  you  wish,  as  a  thought- 
ful and  considerate  man,  to  know  whether  your  poor 
old  grandmother  is  likely  to  be  affected?  " 

Morrison  smiled.  "  My  grandmother  died  dur- 
ing an  epileptic  seizure,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Curi- 
ously, no  other  member  of  my  family  has  suffered 
in  a  similar  way.  We  appeared  to  be  immune. 
But  —  "  He  stopped  and  looked  at  Ward.  In- 
voluntarily, he  smiled  again.  It  was  a  mere  ner- 
vous reaction.  "  I  rather  fancied,"  he  continued 
after  a  moment,  "  that  I  have  inherited  the 
taint." 

"  Why?  "  Ward  asked  curtly. 

"  I  have  had  two  attacks*"  Morrison  said. 

"When?" 

"  One,  almost  immediately  after  you  went  away, 
and  the  other,  about  a  fortnight  ago." 

"Did  you  see  Lyster?  " 

"  Well,"  Morrison  said,  "  you  '11  think  me  cow- 
ardly and  silly,  but  —  I  didn't  like  to.  I  expect 
I  was  afraid  of  having  my  fears  confirmed.  But 
when  you  came  back  —  I  have  been  thinking  the 
matter  over,  you  see,  and  I  realized  that  it  was 
my  duty  to  consult  you." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  found  a  little  commonsense  some- 
where," Ward  said.  "  Now  tell  me  exactly  all  you 
can  remember  about  those  attacks.  We  '11  have  the 
last  one  first;  you  may  remember  the  details  more 
clearly." 


228  THE    PIT 

"  I  'm  afraid  my  recollections  are  very  vague," 
Morrison  said.  "  I  was  in  my  study,  fortunately  —  " 

"  At  night?  " 

"  Yes." 

"What  time?" 

"  I  really  could  not  tell  you." 

"  Was  it  late?    After  ten?     After  eleven?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  after  eleven." 

"Was  it  after  twelve?"  Ward  persisted. 

"  Perhaps,"  the  curate  admitted.  "  Yes.  I  think 
so.  You  see,  I  had  been  reading  and  —  thinking, 
and  I  had  risen  to  get  another  volume  from  my 
bookcase  when  —  well,  I  just  fell,  you  see.  I 
don't  remember  anything  more  until  I  came  round 
again." 

"  Nobody  found  you  or  helped  you? "  Ward 
asked.  "  You  just  lay  there  till  you  recovered 
consciousness  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  could  n't  help  that,  you  know ;  nor 
could  anybody  else.  They  were  all  in  bed,  and  I 
was  n't  —  " 

"  Unfortunately,"  Ward  said.  "  You  had  been 
out  a  great  deal  during  the  day,  no  doubt;  visit- 
ing and  so  on?  " 

"  A  little  more  than  usual,  perhaps." 

"  And  it  was  a  hot  day?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  had  been  rather  warm,"  Mor- 
rison agreed. 

Ward  gazed  at  him  curiously.     "  Why  did  you 


THE    PIT  229 

think  of  epilepsy  more  than  of  anything  else?  "  he 
asked. 

The  curate  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  My  grand- 
mother —  "  he  began. 

"  Who  possibly  was  never  an  epileptic  at  all," 
Ward  interrupted.  "  I  daresay  she  had  an  apo- 
plectic stroke,  and  nothing  else;  and  a  lot  of  silly 
people  magnified  this  into  lifelong  epilepsy.  But 
you  have  been  brooding,  and  frightening  your- 
self— " 

"  No,"  Morrison  said,  flushing  a  little.  "  I  as- 
sure you  I  had  not  thought  about  the  matter  for 
many  years,  until  my  own  attacks  naturally  made 
me  connect  the  two  cases." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  at  all  about  epilepsy, 
except  mere  guesswork?  "  Ward  asked. 

"  Not  much,"  Morrison  admitted.  "  I  have 
avoided  the  subject  precisely  for  the  reason  that 
you  have  just  suggested:  I  did  not  wish  to 
allow  myself  to  become  suspicious  or  morbid.  Of 
course,  I  have  the  usual  general  idea.  Nothing 
more." 

"  You  could  n't  very  well  have  much  less,"  Ward 
said.  "  Now,  if  you  '11  take  off  your  coat  and 
waistcoat,  and  try  not  to  imagine  that  you  're  hav- 
ing your  photograph  taken,  I  '11  give  you  a  proper 
examination  —  which  you  might  have  had  a  month 
ago  from  Lyster,  if  you  'd  had  enough  common- 
sense  to  speak  to  him." 


230  THE    PIT 

"  Am  I  to  look  pleasant? "  Morrison  asked. 
"  Or  may  I  scowl?  " 

"  Just  be  normal,"  Ward  retorted.  "  I  can  stand 
it." 

Very  carefully,  he  proceeded  to  test  the  curate's 
construction  and  constitution.  As  he  did  so,  his 
face,  usually  impassive  when  he  was  occupied  with 
his  work,  seemed  to  grow  almost  harsh. 

"Well?"  Morrison  asked,  at  last. 

"  No,"  Ward  replied  coldly.     "  111." 

Morrison  smiled.  His  sunny  disposition,  ob- 
scured for  a  moment  by  anxiety,  became  serene 
again  when  doubt  was  ended. 

"  All  right,"  he  said.  "  Of  course,  I  mean  all 
wrong,  but  that 's  all  right,  so  long  as  you  know. 
It 's  not  being  quite  sure  that  plays  tricks  with 
one's  nerves.  I  can  now  put  my  house  in  order, 
turn  all  responsibility  over  to  you,  and  be  as  happy 
as  the  day  is  long."  He  walked  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  at  the  light.  He  was  still  smiling.  After 
a  little  while,  his  lips  moved,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
repeating  something,  but  Ward  caught  only  the 
word  "  evensong."  He  turned  again.  "  Thank 
God,"  he  said. 

"For  what?"  Ward  asked. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  Morrison  explained.  "  Just 
thinking.  Did  I  speak?  What  did  I  say?" 

"  You  said  *  thank  God,'  "  Ward  answered.  "  And 
I  asked  you,  for  what  ?  " 


THE    PIT  231 

"  For  everything,"  the  curate  said.  "  Surely? 
It  would  be  rather  disgusting,  would  n't  it,  that  I 
should  preach  patience  and  trust  in  God's  love, 
through  the  years,  and  then  be  impatient,  and  doubt 
His  love,  at  the  first  personal  trial !  "  He  sat  down. 
"  Just  two  questions,  old  man.  In  the  first  place, 
an  epileptic,  of  course,  has  not  a  shadow  of  right 
to  marry?  " 

"  No,"  Ward  said.  "  Decidedly,  an  epileptic 
should  not  marry." 

"  In  the  second  place,"  Morrison  continued,  "  be- 
fore you  give  me  your  instructions,  your  abomina- 
ble medicine,  and  your  invaluable  advice,  I  should 
like  to  know  whether  it  will  hurt  me  if  I  still  yield 
to  my  craving  for  black-currant  lozenges?" 

"  They  will  undoubtedly  be  fatal,"  Ward  returned, 
"  if  you  take  them  in  sufficient  quantities." 

Morrison  sighed.  "The  last  straw,"  he  said. 
"  The  final  crusher.  I  am  now  abject.  I  crawl. 
What  is  life  without  lozenges  ?  " 

As  Ward  looked  at  his  friend,  jesting,  that 
tragedy  might  seem  less  sombre,  he  considered  the 
serious  question  that  had  been  asked  —  whether  it 
were  conceivably  right  for  an  epileptic  to  marry? 
Was  that  merely  a  vague  enquiry  or  was  there 
some  specific  reason  for  it?  He  remembered  little 
incidents  —  trivial,  perhaps,  but  indicative  —  which 
had  caused  him  to  wonder  whether  the  curate  had 
more  than  a  clerical  interest  in  Alice  Heath.  Moved 


232  THE    PIT 

by  a  desire,  cruel  but  imperative,  to  probe  into  the 
emotions  of  this  gentle,  upright  man,  to  compare 
his  attitude  with  his  own  and  test  his  power  of  re- 
nunciation, he  asked  him  a  direct  question. 

"  Why  did  you  enquire  about  an  epileptic  marry- 
ing? "  he  said. 

"  I  wanted  to  be  quite  sure,"  Morrison  answered. 
"  Of  course,  I  knew.  But  —  "  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "  You  see,"  he  added  quietly,  "  I  had 
been  foolish  enough  to  fall  in  love  —  though  it 
seemed  wise  enough,  God  knows,  at  first." 

"  Had  you  spoken  to  her?  "  Ward  asked. 

"  Not  definitely,"  the  curate  said.  "  But  I  think 
she  understood.  I  am  afraid  she  understood.  That 
is  the  one  hard  thing,  old  man :  that  she  must  suffer 
too.  Of  course,  I  —  after  my  first  attack,  I  tried 
to  keep  out  of  her  way,  and  to  be  —  you  know  — 
colder  and  more  formal,  so  that  she  might  think  it 
had  all  been  a  mistake.  But  —  it  makes  one  feel 
rather  caddish,  Ward.  Yet  I  don't  know  what  else 
to  do.  If  I  can  just  drop  out  of  her  life,  grad- 
ually, she  will  have  a  proper  chance,  you  know  — 
the  natural  elasticity  of  youth,  and  all  that  kind 
of  thing  —  " 

"  You  are  prepared  to  give  her  up,  then?  "  Ward 
asked. 

Morrison  flushed.  "  The  children  of  the  woman 
I  love  shall  be  healthy,  please  God;  not  tainted 
and  doomed,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  that  she  will  learn 


THE    PIT  233 

to  forget  me.  I  hope  that  she  will  marry,  in  good 
time,  a  man  who  is  worthy  of  her,  and  loves  her: 
a  man  who  has  the  right  to  love  her:  a  happier 
man  than  I." 

"  Ah,  to  be  able  to  choose  like  that,"  Ward  mur- 
mured. "  Without  doubt  or  hesitation.  Just  to 
choose  the  right,  because  it  is  right." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  Morrison  said. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  Ward  answered ;  "  as  you  were 
a  little  while  ago."  He  put  his  hand  on  Morrison's 
shoulder.  "  Why  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  give  her 
up  ?  "  he  said.  "  Why  not  wait  until  you  find  out 
whether  she  wants  to  give  you  up  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  Morrison  said  coldly. 
"  I  cannot  marry  her.  Why  prolong  doubt,  uneasi- 
ness, perhaps  distress  ?  " 

"  But  why  cannot  you  marry  her?  "  Ward  asked. 

Morrison  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "  You 
yourself  said  that  an  epileptic  had  no  right  to 
marry." 

Ward  nodded.  "  Quite  so.  But  I  did  n't  say 
that  you  had  n't." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  Morrison  said. 
"What  are  you  driving  at?" 

"  I  was  wondering,"  Ward  answered,  "  why  you 
persist  in  regarding  yourself  as  an  epileptic?  " 

"  Old  man,"  Morrison  said,  "  tell  me  —  did  n't 
you  say  —  ?  " 

"  I  said  you  were  ill.     And  so  you  are.     But  I 


234  THE    PIT 

did  n't  say  you  were  epileptic.  You  just  let  your 
preconceived  ideas  run  away  with  you,  and  I  al- 
lowed you  to  ramble  on  because  you  deserved  some 
punishment  for  not  coming  sensibly  to  Lyster  in 
the  first  place.  You  would  have  saved  yourself  a 
month's  unhappiness  and  mental  torture.  What  is 
really  the  matter  with  you,  Morrison,  is  simply 
this :  you  've  been  under- feeding,  under-sleeping, 
and  over-working ;  you  've  brought  on  a  state  of 
nervous  and  physical  weakness,  and  you  've  had 
two  fainting  attacks.  What  you  want  is  a  quiet 
holiday,  a  rational  life,  plenty  of  sleep,  sufficient 
food,  and  no  worry,  and  you  '11  be  as  fit  as  any 
man  has  a  right  to  be,  in  a  few  weeks.  Organic- 
ally, you  're  as  sound  as  a  bell." 

"Is  this  possible?"  Morrison  said.  He  stood 
up.  "  I  '11  have  to  go  home  and  think  this  over. 
I  —  you  won't  consider  me  greedy,  old  man,  will 
you,  if  I  ask  you  for  a  few  more  of  those  lozenges? 
I  —  "  His  lips  twitched.  "Thank  God!"  he 
whispered. 


CHAPTER    III 

branch  line  that  used  to  link  the  scattered 
towns  and  villages  of  the  Smokeries,  now 
passes  merely  from  point  to  point  of  an 
almost  continuous  hive.  For  the  separate  units, 
expanding,  have  added  ring  to  ring,  joining  neigh- 
bour to  neighbour  and  building  up,  as  London  was 
built,  a  town  of  many  towns,  which,  growing  still, 
shall  become  a  complex  city,  clinging  to  the  last 
to  its  canopy  of  smoke,  its  sentinel-beacons  of  fur- 
nace fires.  But  the  process  of  cohesion  is  not  yet 
complete.  On  the  outskirts,  there  are  still  villages 
unabsorbed,  isolated  hamlets,  and  townships  con- 
tentedly independent. 

Newchurch  is  remote  from  the  real  pyrexia  of 
the  district.  Its  little  railway  station,  huddled  in 
a  dingy  valley,  is  comparatively  quiet:  the  succes- 
sion of  trains  which  serves  the  subdued  wanderlust 
of  the  other  towns  is  checked,  and  swung  round 
on  the  return  journey,  before  reaching  it.  Only  a 
few  trains  continue  to  the  end  of  the  loop  con- 
necting the  more  distant  villages  with  the  terminus, 
where  the  London  expresses  and  the  main  line 
traffic  converge. 


236  THE    PIT 

On  a  hot  afternoon,  when  the  air  was  oppres- 
sively humid,  the  one  Newchurch  porter  who  was 
on  duty  came  slowly  from  the  little  room,  dark  and 
oily,  labelled  "  Porters  Only."  The  warning  whistle 
of  an  approaching  train  had  roused  him  from  dull 
stupor:  in  the  glare  of  the  sunlight,  he  blinked, 
resentfully. 

The  train  clattered  into  the  station,  fuming 
steam  and  tawny  smoke.  A  few  people  descended. 
The  porter,  placing  himself  at  the  far  end  of  the 
platform,  slammed  the  swinging  doors  as  the  train 
snorted  out  again;  then,  turning,  he  took  the 
tickets  of  those  who  wished  to  pass  through  the 
barred  exit.  Perceiving  a  beckoning  finger  —  an 
imperative  finger  —  he.  sauntered  forward.  Sud- 
denly, he  became  alert.  The  finger,  he  realized,  be- 
longed to  Philpotts,  Lord  Daventry's  indispensable 
and  silent  minister.  Standing  slightly  back,  was 
Lord  Daventry  himself,  aquiline,  unruffled,  imposing. 

The  porter  saluted.  As  he  did  so,  he  became 
aware  of  a  third  person,  stalwart  and  impressive. 
The  multitude  astounded  him. 

Philpotts,  without  speaking,  pointed  to  a  trunk 
and  a  bag. 

The  porter  nodded.  "  Yessir,"  he  said.  "  Im- 
mediately. At  once." 

Lord  Daventry  was  regarding  the  third  person. 

"  Where,"  he  asked  himself,  "  have  I  seen  that 
face?" 


THE    PIT  237 

The  third  person  was  regarding  Lord  Daventry. 

"  Where,"  he  wondered,  "  have  I  seen  that  nose, 
those  green-grey  eyes,  those  thin  lips?  " 

Philpotts,  having  arranged,  with  a  gesture,  for 
the  delivery  of  the  luggage,  glanced  at  his  master. 
Obediently,  Lord  Daventry  moved  on.  Respectfully, 
Philpotts  attended  him.  The  porter,  saluting  again, 
thought  that  this  lordship  was  less  active  than  on 
the  occasion  of  his  former  visit.  He  walked  stiffly, 
and  stooped  a  little. 

"  'E  's  showin'  'is  age,"  the  railway  man  reflected. 
"  'E  's  crumblin5.  Wot  a  pity !  " 

He  turned  to  the  third  person,  a  man  of  about 
forty-five,  big,  blond  and  broad-shouldered,  with  a 
tanned  face,  a  moustache  that  looked  light  in  the 
sunshine,  and  a  bag  that  looked  heavy.  His  clothes, 
though  well-made,  were  obviously  not  of  English 
cut.  Even  his  soft  felt  hat  was  able  to  announce 
that  it  had  not  been  bought  in  London. 

He  pointed  to  his  bag.  "  I  want  you  to  send 
that  up  to  the  vicarage,"  he  said. 

"  Yessir,"  said  the  porter.  Mentally,  he  added 
to  his  weekly  wages  the  half-crown  that  he  would 
possibly  receive  for  the  trip  to  the  vicarage  and 
the  half-crown  that  he  would  certainly  receive  from 
Philpotts.  The  total  seemed  lavish.  Suddenly,  it 
diminished,  as  he  connected  the  large  man  before 
him  with  a  small  pony  trap  in  the  lane  outside. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said.     "  But  was  you  ex- 


238  THE    PIT 

pected  at  the  vicarage?  Timmins,  'e  's  bin  down 
with  the  pony  trap  most  all  day,  an'  yesterday  too. 
'E  said  they  was  lookin'  for  someone,  an*  did  n't 
know  wot  train  'e  was  comin'  by;  so  'im  an*  the 
vicar,  they  just  settled  to  meet  'em  all.  'E  would  n't 
name  no  names,  Timmins  would  n't :  'e  was  n't  never 
a  talker.  But  'e  's  waitin'  now,  back  of  the  'edge. 
I  'm  doubtin*  'e  's  asleep,  though.  'E  's  that  old, 
you  see." 

"  All  right,"  the  big  man  said.  "  He  can  take 
me  up.  Just  bring  the  bag  along  and  put  it  in 
the  trap." 

They  passed  out  into  the  lane.  A  little  beyond 
the  curve,  where  two  trees  formed  an  oasis  of  shade, 
they  perceived  the  carriage.  The  diminutive  pony 
was  browsing  on  the  short  grass  by  the  side  of  the 
path.  In  the  neat  carriage  sat  a  white-haired  old 
man.  The  reins  drooped  slackly  from  one  limp  hand. 
His  head  hung  forward.  He  was  asleep. 

The  big  man  turned  to  the  porter.  "  Gently," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Don't  disturb  him.  Here, 
give  me  the  bag." 

He  put  it  in  the  carriage,  tipped  the  porter, 
and  waved  him  away.  That  astonished  man  —  in 
his  hand  the  half-crown  of  which  he  had  dreamed 
for  a  moment,  until  it  seemed  to  elude  him  irrevo- 
cably —  saluted  to  the  measure  of  such  munificence, 
and  returned  slowly  to  his  oily  den. 

The  visitor  looked   for  a  moment  at  the  white- 


THE    PIT  239 

haired  servant;  then  touched  him  lightly  on  the 
shoulder. 

The  old  man  raised  his  head.  As  he  saw  who 
had  wakened  him,  the  reins  slipped  from  his  fingers. 
Picking  them  up  again,  he  opened  the  door  and  let 
it  swing  back. 

"Get  in,  Mr.  Harold,"  he  said.  "We've  bin 
expectin'  you  any  time  these  two  days.  An'  now 
you  're  here.  Well,  well,  I  'm  mighty  glad  you  've 
come."  He  looked  wistfully  at  the  bronzed  face. 
"  An'  I  was  dozin'  when  you  come.  Dozin',  I  was. 
I  've  met  all  the  trains  an'  looked  out  for  you,  I 
have,  watchin'  every  face  as  it  come  round  the 
corner,  to  see  if  't  was  yourn.  An'  it  was  n't.  An' 
now,  when  it  was,  I  was  dozin'.  Eh,  but  I  'm  one 
of  the  foolish  virgins,  Mr.  Harold ;  I  'm  one  of  the 
foolish  virgins." 

Harold  Thorpe  got  in.  "  I  'm  glad  to  see  you 
again,  Timmins,"  he  said,  placing  his  hand  on  the 
old  man's  arm. 

"  I  had  n't  ought  to  have  bin  asleep,"  Timmins 
went  on.  "  But  what  with  gardenin',  an'  lookin' 
after  the  pony,  an'  them  dratted  chickens,  my  old 
eyes  get  all  of  a  blur.  All  of  a  blur,  they  get.  But 
I  hadn't  ought  to  have  bin  asleep,  just  when  you 
come.  I  'd  ought  to  have  known  that  Js  how  it 
would  be,  an'  not  let  it." 

Thorpe  took  the  reins.  "  How  's  the  vicar?  "  he 
asked. 


240  THE    PIT 

The  old  man  shook  his  head.  "  I  could  n't  tell 
you,  Mr.  Harold.  What  with  my  eyes  bein'  all  of 
a  blur,  with  them  dratted  chickens  an'  things,  I 
don't  seem  to  see  plain.  But  he  's  gettin'  mortal 
old,  like  me.  He  won't  be  asleep,  though,  the  vicar 
won't.  You  '11  find  him  waitin'  for  you.  It  is  n't 
every  day,  Mr.  Harold,  that  an  old  man's  son 
comes  home  at  last,  like  Solomon  in  all  his  glory.  — 
They  're  tellin'  me  you  're  rich  now,"  he  added. 
"  Flocks  an'  herds,  an'  silver  an'  gold." 

Thorpe  laughed.  "  How  did  you  manage  to  rec- 
ognize me,  Timmins,  if  you  cannot  see  the  dear  old 
governor  clearly  enough  to  know  how  he  looks  ?  " 

"  I  'd  bin  sleepin',"  the  old  man  answered.  "  An' 
dreamin'.  An'  my  eyes  was  n't  all  of  a  blur.  But 
I  had  n't  ought  to  have  bin  asleep,  Mr.  Harold,  an' 
I  'd  take  it  kindly  if  you  would  n't  mention  it  to 
the  vicar." 

He  looked  deprecatingly  at  his  master's  son. 

"  Don't  worry,"  Thorpe  said.  "  I  have  n't  come  all 
the  way  from  Colorado  to  grumble  at  my  friends." 

"  No,  nor  to  find  them  asleep,  neither,"  the  old 
man  said.  "  You  was  expectin'  a  welcome." 

"  I  'm  going  to  get  it,"  Thorpe  answered.  In 
his  eyes  was  the  humility  of  the  returned  wanderer, 
who  sees  his  home  after  many  years. 

Lord  Daventry,  labouring  up  the  hill  that  led 
to  his  grandson's  house,  deliberately  considered  the 


THE    PIT  241 

face  of  the  man  he  had  met  at  the  station,  and  tried 
to  revive  the  associations  which  would  have  accom- 
panied full  recognition.  Suddenly,  he  uttered  an 
exclamation. 

"  He  has  shaved !  "  he  said.  "  Philpotts,  he  has 
shaved!" 

Philpotts  made  no  remarks.  Shaving  was 
legitimate  and  desirable.  Comment  was  therefore 
unnecessary. 

"  Yes,"  Lord  Daventry  said.  "  When  I  saw  him 
before,  he  had  a  beard.  Now,  he  has  only  a  mous- 
tache. But  it  is  he,  undoubtedly.  Philpotts,  I  was 
beginning  to  fear  that  I  was  growing  old,  that  my 
power  of  recollection  was  failing.  I  was  mistaken. 
It  is  his  beard,  not  my  memory,  that  has  vanished. 
One  could  scarcely  be  expected  to  recognize  hairy 
Esau  in  the  disguise  of  smooth  Jacob.  Eh?  " 

Philpotts  inclined  his  head. 

When  they  reached  the  house,  Miss  Sands,  sus- 
pecting acid  in  Lord  Daventry's  perfectly  alkaline 
greeting,  was  at  once  disquieted.  Dr.  Ward,  she 
said,  was  not  at  home,  and  would  certainly  not  be 
back  for  dinner.  He  had  gone  to  a  meeting  in  the 
principal  town  of  the  Smokeries,  and  was  not  ex- 
pected to  return  till  late.  , 

"  A  meeting,  no  doubt,  in  connection  with  the 
church?  "  Lord  Daventry  sneered. 

Miss  Sands  flushed  a  little.  "They've  had 
trouble  at  the  pits,"  she  said.  "  There  's  been  some 


242  THE    PIT 

rioting  here  and  there,  and  it  looks  like  spreading. 
So  the  owners  are  holding  a  meeting,  and  the  men 
too." 

"  Dr.  Ward  is  not  a  colliery  proprietor,"  Lord 
Daventry  observed,  "  or  a  hewer  of  coal.  What  on 
earth  has  he  to  do  with  the  meeting?  Eh?  " 

"  He  knows  the  temper  of  the  men  about  here," 
Miss  Sands  explained.  "  So  he  's  gone  to  do  what 
he  can  to  bring  about  an  agreement.  You  see, 
Lord  Daventry,  our  people  are  so  poor,  and  a 
strike  or  a  lock-out  means  so  much  misery  and  seems 
so  pitiful.  That  is  why  Dr.  Ward  did  not  sit  down 
and  say  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter.  He 
went  out  to  see  if  he  could  help." 

"  Truly  saint-like,"  Lord  Daventry  said.  "  May 
I  ask  what  the  trouble  is  about?  " 

"  It 's  about  snapping,"  Miss  Sands  answered 
promptly.  Confident  that  Lord  Daventry  did  not 
understand  the  meaning  of  the  term,  she  waited, 
with  a  sense  of  superiority,  to  be  asked  to  explain  it. 

Lord  Daventry  regarded  her  composedly. 
"  Really?  "  he  said.  "  An  admirable  bone  of  con- 
tention. But  labour  disputes  bore  me.  They  are 
so  distressingly  monotonous." 

"  So  is  starvation,"  Miss  Sands  returned.  She 
was  astonished  at  her  own  temerity. 

Lord  Daventry  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Pos- 
sibly," he  said.  "  But  I  have  not  yet  studied  that 
question  practically.  It  would  be  mere  affectation 


THE    PIT  243 

for  even  a  member  of  the  House  of  Lords  to  starve, 
at  present.  I  have  little  doubt,  however,  that  it 
will  soon  become  a  habit.  I  assure  you,  I  look  for- 
ward to  each  Budget  with  painful  apprehension  that 
the  worst  is  not  yet  over.  And  it  never  is.  Bud- 
gets are  more  demoralizing  than  drugs.  The  more 
you  take,  the  more  you  want.  Only  the  evil  in- 
genuity of  a  budget-friend  would  fine  a  man  out- 
rageously for  being  so  considerate  as  to  die.  Eh?  " 

Miss  Sands,  listening,  looked  at  the  lined,  ex- 
pressive face.  His  eyes,  she  thought,  seemed  weary. 
She  realized  that  he  was  very  old. 

"  I  will  fetch  you  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  said.  "  It 
will  refresh  you  after  your  long  journey." 

He  smiled.  "  An  old  man  should  always  be  pre* 
pared  for  a  long  journey,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER   IV 

WHEN  Ward  came  down  in  the  morning, 
his  grandfather,  serene  and  satirical,  was 
already  up.  It  was  a  day  of  sunshine 
and  blue  skies;  warm,  but  not  enervating.  The 
air  seemed  to  hold  in  solution  some  agent  of  vitaliz- 
ing keenness.  Even  the  inevitable  film  of  smoke 
was  faint  and  translucent. 

"  I  trust,"  Lord  Daventry  said,  "  that  your 
efforts  in  the  cause  of  peace  were  successful.  It 
is  a  pity  to  waste  such  enthusiasm.  And  by  the 
way,  what  is  '  snapping  '?  " 

"  Eating,"  Ward  explained.  "  The  miners  are 
allowed  half  an  hour  for  a  meal.  There  have  been 
disputes  about  it  ever  since  the  Eight  Hours  Bill 
was  passed." 

"And  the  latest  disagreement  is  ended?"  Lord 
Daventry  asked.  "  Your  eloquence  has  oiled  the 
ruffled  billows?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  Ward  said.  "  I  *m  afraid  there 
may  be  more  trouble.  But  it  is  smoothed  over  for 
the  present,  in  this  neighbourhood,  at  least." 

They  went  in  to  breakfast. 

"  You  have  not  asked  me,"  Lord  Daventry  ob- 
served, "  the  reason  for  this  hurried  visit.*' 


THE    PIT  245 

"  No,"  Ward  answered.  "  If  you  have  come  for 
a  special  purpose,  you  will  tell  me,  I  presume.  If 
you  have  come  merely  to  re-inspect  the  pig-sties 
and  criticise  the  district  generally,  Marple  shall  be 
at  your  service  whenever  I  am  busy.  In  any  event, 
you  know  that  I  am  always  glad  to  see  you." 

"  I  believe  you  are,"  the  old  man  said.  "  Heaven 
knows  why.  But  I  will  tell  you  the  reason  for  this 
intrusion.  Curiosity.  I  have  not  come  to  argue 
with  you,  or  to  appeal  to  you.  I  have  come  to 
watch  the  entertainment  and  amuse  myself  with  the 
spectacle  of  a  strong-willed  man,  of  saintly  habits, 
crawling  in  the  mud  at  the  whim  of  a  sensual 
woman." 

"  That  would  certainly  amuse  you,"  Ward  re- 
joined. "  But  why  have  you  come  here?  No  en- 
tertainment of  that  kind  has  been  advertised." 

"  I  have  followed  the  lady,"  Lord  Daventry  said. 
"  Cherchez  la  femme.  It  is  a  wise  saying.  For 
where  the  woman  is,  there  also  will  be  the  devil  — 
or  the  devil  to  pay.  Eh  ?  " 

Ward's  look  of  enquiry  perplexed  him.  He  re- 
flected for  a  moment. 

"You  did  not  know,"  he  said,  "that  Lady 
Winter,  after  leaving  Daventry,  came  straight  to 
her  sister  here?  " 

"When?"  Ward  asked. 

"  Two  days  ago.    You  have  not  heard  from  her?  " 

Ward   did   not   answer,   and   the   old   man   went 


246  THE    PIT      . 

on.  "  You  soon  will,  then.  I  assure  you,  she  has 
come  here  deliberately  to  continue  the  game  which 
you  both  found  so  enjoyable  at  Daventry.  She  is 
a  woman  of  singular  character,  Johfi;  a  dangerous 
and  delightful  woman;  very  persistent  in  pursuit, 
very  selfish,  and  quite  without  conscience:  in  fact, 
truly  modern.  But  you  must  not  let  me  interfere 
with  your  pleasant  comedy.  If  you  desire  to  damn 
yourself,  you  could  not  select  a  more  charming 
companion  —  or  one  with  wider  and  more  helpful 
experience,  probably." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  this  *  experi- 
ence,' "  Ward  enquired,  "  or  are  you  drawing  con- 
clusions from  the  one  casual  glimpse  in  New  York 
that  you  told  me  about?  " 

"  I  am  drawing  conclusions  from  my  own  rather 
extensive  experience  of  the  sex,"  Lord  Daventry 
said.  "  I  am  usually  considered  a  good  judge  of 
women." 

"  Of  superficialities,"  Ward  said  coldly.  After 
a  pause,  he  added :  "  I  am  sorry  you  should  couple 
Lady  Winter's  name  with  mine." 

The  old  man  sneered  openly.  "  Bah !  "  he  said. 
"  Why  this  pretence  ?  Do  you  think  you  have  es- 
caped, that  the  danger  is  over?  Eh?  It  is  only 
just  commencing.  This  is  not  an  ordinary  woman. 
I  will  do  her  the  justice  to  say  that  she  is  not  even 
extraordinary.  She  is  herself.  I  cannot  help  wish- 
ing that  I  had  been  able  to  meet  her  in  my  own 


THE    PIT  247 

unregenerate  days.  As  for  you,  my  dear  Saint 
John,  what  can  you  do?  You  want  her.  She  wants 
you.  I  should  have  more  confidence  even  in  — " 
He  paused  and  shrugged  his  shoulders — "George. 
He  is  too  asinine  to  appreciate  the  charms  of  subtle 
deviltry.  But  you  are  more  seducible.  Your  saint- 
liness  will  only  lead  you  into  a  wanton's  arms." 

"  Shall  I  ring  for  some  more  coffee? "  Ward 
asked. 

"  Before  you  call  in  the  admirable  Sands,"  Lord 
Daventry  said,  "  let  me  mention  a  peculiar  coinci- 
dence. You  remember,  evidently,  the  little  story 
I  told  you  about  meeting  Lady  Winter  and  her 
husband  in  New  York."  He  paused,  half  closing 
his  eyes,  as  if  visualizing  the  scene  more  completely. 
"  It  is  odd,"  he  continued,  "  that  while  the  wife  is 
so  affectionately  visiting  her  sister  in  this  inviting 
neighbourhood,  the  husband  should  also  be  paying 
a  visit  to  someone.  At  least,  I  presume  so.  I  saw 
him  at  the  station  yesterday,  when  I  arrived.  He 
had  a  portmanteau  with  him.  Interesting,  eh?  " 

"  You  are  quite  sure  ?  "  Ward  asked. 

"  Quite,"  the  old  man  affirmed.  "  He  has  dis- 
carded his  beard  since  I  last  saw  him,  but  his  iden- 
tity is  unmistakable.  —  Really,"  he  added,  "  it  was 
very  thoughtful  of  him  to  come.  Everything  is  now 
ready  for  the  comedy  to  proceed.  We  have  the 
wilful  wife,  the  ardent  lover,  and  the  stern,  sad  hus- 
band: the  usual  and  universal  three.  Eh?" 


248  THE    PIT 

Ward  rose.  "  There  will  be  no  comedy,"  he  said 
coldly. 

"  Take  care,"  Lord  Daventry  rejoined,  "  that 
there  is  not  a  tragedy  instead.  I  distrust  a  coin- 
cidence—  when  it  takes  the  form  of  a  husband." 

Ward  went  into  his  study.  He  looked  at  his 
letters.  Amongst  them  was  one  from  Lady  Winter. 
It  was  the  first  she  had  written  to  him.  Indeed, 
he  did  not  know,  until  he  had  opened  it,  that  it 
came  from  her,  for  he  had  never  seen  her  hand- 
writing. He  considered  it  now,  carefully.  Each 
of  the  characters  was  formed  distinctly,  with  a 
thick,  even  stroke  or  curve.  The  rounded  script  — 
smooth  but  heavy  —  astonished  him.  The  black  ink 
seemed  to  form  raised  letters,  moulded  from  jet 
and  fastened  separately  to  the  ivory  paper.  He 
had  expected  angularity,  lightness  and  a  flowing 
style.  Yet,  as  the  written  lines  impressed  them- 
selves upon  him,  he  realized  that  his  first  vague 
idea  had  been  wrong.  Her  personality  was  in  these 
supple  outlines.  He  began  to  image  her  in  black 
velvet,  framing  the  whiteness  of  her  throat  — 

The  letter  was  short.  It  was  undated.  No  ad- 
dress was  given,  and  no  prefix  used.  He  read  it 
slowly. 

"  I  came  back  yesterday,  and  shall  stay  here  for 
a  week.  Will  you  see  me,  once? 

"  You   will  be   glad   to   know   that  my   sister  is 


THE    PIT  249 

almost  happy.  Mr.  Harrington  seems  wonderfully 
changed.  He  is  quite  gentle  and  thoughtful.  I 
tell  you  this  because  it  is  through  you  that  it  has 
happened.  Do  you  remember  that  strange  meeting, 
when  you  found  my  pencil?  " 

That  was  all.  He  put  the  letter  in  his  pocket, 
glanced  through  the  rest  of  his  correspondence,  and 
went  into  the  surgery. 

He  did  not  meet  his  grandfather  again  until 
lunch.  The  old  man  seemed  wayward,  passing  from 
benignity  to  petulance,  and  from  petulance  to  un- 
usually bitter  criticism.  He  was  evidently  in  a 
state  of  nervous  unrest.  Ward  had  never  known 
him  to  be  so  variable,  and  he  was  glad  when  the 
meal  was  over.  Lord  Daventry,  after  a  brief  rest, 
borrowed  Marple  and  the  car,  and  went  out,  as  he 
said  unkindly,  to  breathe  the  fresh  smoke.  A  little 
later,  Morrison  called. 

"  I  have  heard,"  he  said,  "  that  that  formidable 
person,  your  grandfather,  has  returned  to  our  hos- 
pitable shores  —  forgive  the  phrase,  but  I  often 
think  of  the  Smokeries  as  an  island  surrounded 
by  fresh  air.  As  I  leave  to-morrow  to  commence 
the  frightful  task  of  idleness  to  which  you  have 
doomed  me,  I  thought  it  would  cheer  the  dear  old 
man  up  if  I  presented  myself  for  his  benediction. 
He  will  be  delighted,  I  know,  to  see  the  last  of 
me." 


250  THE    PIT 

Ward  explained  that  Lord  Daventry  was  then 
inspecting  the  atmosphere. 

The  curate  was  disappointed.  "  I  may  not  have 
another  opportunity,"  he  said.  "  I  should  have 
liked  to  see  him.  His  cynicship  has  captured  my 
heart  —  or,  at  least,  a  portion  of  the  portion  that 
I  reserve  for  the  convenience  of  my  friends.  A 
man  who  is  in  love  has  to  limit  his  —  shall  we  say, 
cardiac  generosity? "  He  patted  Ward's  arm. 
"  You  unemotional  people  cannot  understand  the 
charm  of  being  quite  young,  and  foolish,  and  su- 
perbly wise.  Of  course,  many  people  who  are  in 
love  are  merely  idiotic.  They  believe  they  have 
achieved  something  which  nobody  else  has  ever 
really  understood.  I  have  met  men  who  raved 
about  the  unparalleled  paragons  they  were  going 
to  marry,  and  who  evidently  pitied  the  remainder 
of  the  universe,  shut  out  from  the  one  amazing  and 
only  desirable  girl.  That  kind  of  thing  is  irritat- 
ing. I  have  no  sympathy  with  it.  But  I  don't 
mind  confiding  to  you,  in  strict  confidence,  that  if 
you  want  to  see  a  girl  who  is  absolutely,  utterly 
and  transcendently  peerless,  you  must  let  me  in- 
troduce you  to  the  future  Mrs.  Morrison.  Far  be 
it  from  me  to  boast.  I  am  simply  stating  in  the 
most  laconic  language  possible  a  fact  which  would 
be  obvious  even  to  the  meanest  intellect.  Much 
more,  then,  O  my  Daniel,  will  it  be  plain  to  your 
perspicacity."  He  grinned. 


THE    PIT  251 

"You  mean  Alice  Heath,  without  doubt?  "  Ward 
said  gravely. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  perfection  to  remain  anony- 
mous," the  curate  answered. 

"  There  seems  to  be  an  epidemic  of  engagements," 
Ward  said.  "There  is  yourself;  there  is  Lydia 
Heath  —  your  future  sister-in-law  —  and  Harry 
Poole;  I  rather  suspect  that  Miss  Sands  is  going 
to  desert  me  in  order  to  save  Balding  from  dys- 
pepsia and  a  shattered  heart;  and  Marple,  whom 
I  considered  impregnable,  asked  me  yesterday  if  I 
could  increase  his  wages,  as  the  date  for  the  fatal 
ceremony  had  been  fixed." 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  world,"  Morrison  said. 
"  Think  of  so  many  people  walking  hand  in  hand 
with  happiness,  their  lives  transfigured,  their 
thoughts  beautiful,  and  spring  in  their  hearts.  — 
And  by  the  way,"  he  added,  "  I  was  at  Clayfield 
the  other  evening.  Harrington  seems  very  different. 
He 's  given  up  drinking.  All  his  flabbiness  has 
gone.  His  face  is  firm,  his  eyes  are  clear,  and  he  98 
in  first  rate  condition.  He  looks  more  like  he  must 
have  done  when  he  was  a  young  man.  I  can  un- 
derstand now  what  always  puzzled  me  before  — 
how  his  wife  could  ever  have  fallen  in  love  with 
him.  Mrs.  Harrington  looked  happier,  I  thought, 
though  she  will  never  get  over  poor  Walter's  death. 
But  she  's  closer  to  her  husband  than  she  has  been 
for  years.  Their  marriage  seemed  a  ghastly  failure, 


252  THE    PIT 

did  n't  it?  Now,  it  makes  you  feel  strange  to  see 
them  together.  There  is  something  wistful  and  yet 
so  human  about  it  all.  —  A  broken  and  a  contrite 
heart  —  you  can  find  both  in  that  house,  Ward." 
He  jumped  up,  suddenly.  "  I  nearly  forgot  to  tell 
you ! "  he  cried.  "  Did  you  know  that  Harold 
Thorpe  had  come  home  again?  " 

"  I  knew  he  was  expected,"  Ward  said  quietly. 
"And  so  he  's  really  here  at  last?  Dear  old  vicar! 
It  will  mean  a  great  deal  to  him." 

"  Yes,"  Morrison  agreed.  "  But  I  'm  afraid  the 
vicar  's  not  quite  what  he  used  to  be.  He  's  an  old 
man,  and  he  shows  it.  He  's  seemed  a  trifle  odd  at 
times,  too.  Harold's  appearance  will  do  him  a  lot 
of  good,  though.  The  fatted  chickens  have  already 
been  killed,  and  two  blameless  ducks  are  doomed 
to-day.  These  auspicious  arrivals  are  rough  on 
poultry.  There 's  quaking  in  the  fowl-house  and 
quacking  on  the  pond,  just  at  present.  It 's  a 
sad  outlook  for  anything  with  feathers  and  domes- 
tic habits  when  a  wanderer  returns  to  the  rural 
home  of  his  fathers  —  in  this  instance,  to  be  pre- 
cise, of  his  father;  singular,  but  sufficient;  alone, 
but  affectionate." 

"When  did  Harold  come?"  Ward  asked. 

"  Yesterday,"  the  curate  answered.  "  The  ven- 
erable Timmins  met  him  and  brought  him  up  in 
triumph.  A  case  of  patience  rewarded.  All  things 
come  to  those  who  wait,  and  some  things  come  to 


THE    PIT  253 

those  who  go  to  meet  them.  Timmins  did  both. 
He  went,  and  he  waited.  I  believe  he  went  fifteen 
times  and  waited  for  the  greater  part  of  two  days, 
with  the  evenings  attached.  A  very  faithful  man, 
Timmins,  but  inclined  to  doze.  I  watched  him  the 
other  afternoon  working  in  the  garden.  He  watered 
a  gravelled  path  conscientiously  for  half  an  hour, 
till  the  hose  slipped  from  his  fingers  and  played 
Niagara  with  his  legs.  That  woke  him  up.  The 
ducks  were  delighted;  thought  he  was  making  a 
swagger  pond  for  them.  Well,  I  will  wander  on. 
You  '11  be  coming  up  pretty  soon  to  see  Harold, 
I  suppose?  " 

"I  think  so,"  Ward  said  slowly.  "Yes."  His 
eyes  hurt  him.  "  Very  soon,"  he  added. 

"  The  vicar  would  be  glad  if  you  'd  drop  in 
any  evening,  I  know,"  the  curate  said ;  "  but  he 
will  probably  send  you  a  formal  invitation,  as 
Lord  Daventry  is  here.  Curious  bit  of  news  that 
you  told  me,  by  the  way,  about  Miss  Sands 
and  Balding.  I  had  n't  expected  anything  like 
that.  Their  temperaments  seemed  too  distinctly 
different." 

"  I  thought  we  had  learnt  to  expect  only  the 
unexpected  ?  "  Ward  said. 

Morrison  glanced  at  him  oddly.  "  That  seems 
a  trifle  peculiar,  from  you,"  he  remarked.  "  Miss 
Sands  has  given  me  the  impression  that  nothing 
which  happens  is  ever  unexpected,  so  far  as  you  are 


254  THE    PIT 

concerned.  She  credits  you  with  amazing  foresight 
—  in  fact,  a  very  creepy  gift  of  prophecy." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  Ward  replied,  "  that  Miss  Sands 
has  some  of  the  qualities  of  a  magnifying  glass." 
As  he  spoke  the  air  seemed  suddenly  to  become 
dark;  the  chill  of  night  was  in  it.  The  room 
faded,  and  he  saw  a  man  running,  running  — 

"What's  the  matter?"  Morrison  asked  sharply. 

Ward  shut  his  eyes,  with  a  sense  of  strain,  and 
opened  them  again.  "  I  felt  cold  for  a  moment," 
he  said  quietly. 

The  curate  was  concerned.  "  You  're  not  going 
to  be  ill,  I  hope?  "  he  asked.  "  You  must  look  after 
yourself,  old  man.  Why  don't  you  take  one  of 
your  own  prescriptions,  if  you're  feverish?" 

Ward  smiled.  "  *  Physician,  heal  thyself,'  "  he 
said.  "  But  I  'm  not  feverish,  Morrison.  It  was 
only  a  little  chill." 


CHAPTER   V 

LORD  DAVENTRY  was  very  quiet  in  the 
evening,  and  soon  after  nine  o'clock  he  com- 
mitted himself  to  Philpotts'  care  and  retired 
to  his  own  room.  Ward,  left  alone,  was  vaguely 
restless.  He  began  to  read  a  new  novel  by  a  local 
author  of  distinction,  but  the  utter  saneness  of  the 
story  wearied  him  in  his  unusual  mood.  He  picked 
up  instead  a  volume  of  Ibsen's  plays,  and  turned 
to  "  Ghosts."  His  attention  still  wandered.  He 
compared  the  realism  of  the  novelist  with  the  real- 
ism of  the  Norwegian:  there  was  something  sur- 
gical in  both.  Dismissing  details,  he  considered  the 
gloomy  tragedy  of  Oswald  and  Regina.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  Ibsen  was  essentially  sentimental  in  his 
sombreness.  This  would  account  for  the  peculiar 
vividness  of  his  work.  It  was  theatric,  as  nature 
is  theatric.  And  Ibsen  was  a  poet.  He  could  there- 
fore comprehend  nature,  which  is  imaginative,  rather 
than  mechanical. 

He  went  to  his  bookcase,  took  out  his  copy  of 
Shelley,  and  turned  to  "  The  Cenci."  He  read  only 
a  few  passages,  and  put  the  book  back.  But  the 
appeal  of  the  tragic  continued  to  haunt  him.  He 


256  THE    PIT 

pictured  Oswald  in  the  grip  of  destiny,  doomed, 
unsavable.  The  beautiful  face  of  Beatrice  appeared : 
he  could  not  comprehend  the  expression  in  the  eyes, 
yet  his  own  imagination  had  produced  it. 

He  thought  of  Lady  Winter.  Her  letter  was 
still  in  his  pocket.  Its  mere  existence  seemed  to 
diffuse  sensuousness.  Even  the  perfume  which  she 
used,  flooded  the  air,  heavily.  He  knew  that  this 
was  an  hallucination.  When  she  herself  was  pres- 
ent, the  perfume  was  almost  imperceptible.  She  did 
not  saturate  herself  with  scent,  to  drown  her  per- 
sonality. She  conveyed  the  impression  merely  that 
she  had  been  walking  in  a  garden,  where  violets 
grew. 

He  recalled  her  violet  eyes,  her  voice,  her  won- 
derful physical  beauty.  Surely  it  was  a  form  of 
genius  to  reveal  such  loveliness  of  form. 

With  an  effort  of  will,  he  dismissed  the  images, 
and  began  to  consider  the  return  of  Harold  Thorpe, 
in  conjunction  with  Lord  Daventry's  recognition, 
at  the  station,  of  Lady  Winter's  husband.  The 
coincidence  was  significant. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  nearly  eleven 
o'clock.  He  walked  to  the  window,  twisted  a  slat 
of  the  Venetian  blinds  and  peered  through  the  nar- 
row opening.  The  night  was  dark.  On  the  crest 
of  the  hill,  he  could  see  the  lights  of  the  Chayle 
colliery.  But  the  structure  supporting  the  huge 
winding  wheel  was  blotted  by  the  shadows.  He 


THE    PIT  257 

thought  of  the  men  working  in  the  subterranean 
gloom.  The  labour  of  the  world  seemed  a  savage, 
godlike  force ;  insatiable,  pitiless ;  tearing  down, 
destroying,  uprearing,  creating;  a  unity;  power, 
surging  or  convulsive,  sweeping  upon  the  shores  of 
time,  and  leaving  memorials  in  the  sand. 

He  turned  away.  It  was  bed-time,  and  he  felt 
tired.  Yet  his  restlessness  increased.  He  was  af- 
fected by  the  nearness  of  the  woman  he  had  loved; 
by  her  letter  to  him;  by  his  grandfather's  sudden 
visit  and  sarcastic  comments ;  even  by  Harold 
Thorpe's  arrival.  But  some  other  influence,  apart 
from  the  happenings  of  the  day,  was  also  swaying 
him,  urging  him  to  action.  He  had  a  sense  of 
threatened  catastrophe,  which  must  be  averted.  But 
his  inspiration  was  vague.  He  felt,  but  did  not 
comprehend. 

Morrison?  Why  was  he  thinking  about  Morri- 
son? The  little  curate  was  going  away  for  a  holi- 
day. He  would  come  back  perfectly  healthy  and 
happy.  He  would  marry  Alice  Heath  and  live  the 
life  of  a  normal  man ;  untortured  by  self-reproaches ; 
serene  with  the  consciousness  of  duty  done,  of  help 
given. 

He  closed  his  eyes,  waiting.  In  the  darkness,  a 
picture  gradually  developed.  He  saw  a  man  run- 
ning, running  — 

All  hesitation  left  him.  He  walked  into  the  hall, 
picked  up  a  cap  and  a  stick,  unlocked  the  front 


258  THE    PIT 

door  quietly,  and  went  out.  As  he  descended  the 
old  stone  steps,  he  looked  again  at  the  lights  of  the 
colliery.  Noises  came  to  him,  dimly.  Men  were 
working  on  the  surface,  as  well  as  beneath. 

He  opened  the  great  iron  gate,  and  turned  to 
the  left.  He  noticed  that  the  air  was  chilly,  but 
quite  still.  The  sky  was  clouded,  and  moonless. 

He  walked  with  long,  even  strides,  not  trying  to 
think  or  to  see.  Yet  he  was  aware,  half  uncon- 
sciously, of  the  familiar  points  that  he  passed  — 
the  occasional  cottage,  the  branching  ways,  the 
crude  stiles.  The  darkness  was  not  intense,  and 
he  imagined  that  the  clouds  were  disappearing. 

When  he  came  to  the  commencement  of  the  short 
field  path  leading  to  the  vicarage,  he  paused  for  a 
moment.  The  two  withered  trees  that  marked  the 
turning  seemed  like  grotesque  gargoyles  on  the 
roof  of  the  underworld.  The  impression  that  he 
was  walking  above  hidden  things,  rather  than  be- 
neath the  open  sky,  developed  oddly,  and  remained. 
The  menace  of  the  unseen  affected  him. 

He  passed  from  the  lane  into  the  narrow  path. 
There  were  cattle  in  the  field:  their  outlines,  at  a 
distance,  appeared  vague,  and  the  idea  of  ghostly 
bulk  suggested  itself.  He  thought  of  the  kinship 
of  all  animate  beings,  and  then  of  the  shambles. 
The  callous  cruelty  of  mankind  seemed  more  re- 
volting than  any  savagery  of  beasts. 

He  had  crossed  half  way  when  he  suddenly  bent 


THE    PIT.  259 

his  head  and  peered  forward.  The  vision  of  a  man 
running  recurred,  and  with  it  a  faint  noise  of  move- 
ment. The  image  became  definite,  and  the  sound, 
though  muffled,  unmistakable.  He  heard  breathing; 
recognized  the  runner ;  threw  out  an  arresting  arm. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

The  runner  stopped,  breathing  quickly.  "  My 
God !  "  he  said.  "  You  here !  " 

It  was  Morrison. 

He  touched  Ward,  with  a  trembling  hand. 

"  You  knew?  "  he  asked.     "  You  were  coming?  " 

"  You  might  almost  say,  without  fear  of  con- 
tradiction, that  I  have  come,"  Ward  rejoined. 

"  I  don't  understand  it,"  Morrison  said.  "  I 
was  running  to  fetch  you  —  and  you  are  here.  It 
—  it 's  odd." 

"  Better  not  wait,"  Ward  said,  moving  on  as  he 
spoke. 

The  curate  turned,  walking  with  short  swift  steps 
that  kept  pace  with  Ward's  longer  and  more  de- 
liberate strides.  He  jerked  out  words  and  sen- 
tences as  they  went.  It  was  evident  that  he  had 
difficulty  in  controlling  his  voice. 

"  It 's  Thorpe,"  he  said.  "  Harold  Thorpe. 
Dead.  Horrible.  His  poor  father.  Balding  was 
there.  Saw  it.  I  saw  it.  Ran  to  fetch  you.  Why 
have  n't  we  telephones  ?  Ought  to  have.  A  dead 
man.  Couldn't  reach  you.  Had  to  run.  Shot. 
A  frightful  thing." 


260  THE    PIT 

Ward  did  not  speak.  They  came  to  the  vicarage 
gate  and  passed  through  the  garden.  The  door  of 
the  house  was  open.  Morrison  led  the  way  in. 
Ward  closed  the  door,  noiselessly,  and  followed 
Morrison  into  the  vicar's  study,  on  the  ground 
floor.  Again  he  closed  the  door,  noiselessly. 

On  an  old-fashioned,  upholstered  couch,  Harold 
Thorpe  lay,  inert,  tranquil.  It  was  difficult  to  real- 
ize that  he  was  dead.  The  vicar  was  kneeling  at 
the  foot  of  the  couch:  he  seemed  to  be  praying, 
though  his  lips  did  not  move.  Balding,  the  church- 
warden, stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room:  his  face 
no  longer  looked  ruddy,  and  he  was  opening  and 
closing  his  left  hand  nervously. 

Ward  bent  over  the  recumbent  body  and  made 
a  brief  examination.  When  he  had  finished,  he 
turned  and  looked  enquiringly  at  Balding.  The 
churchwarden  continued  to  open  and  close  his 
hand. 

The  vicar  rose,  slowly.  He  seemed  very  old  and 
haggard. 

"  It  was  I,"  he  said.  "  I  shot  him.  Shot  him. 
My  son.  I  cannot  tell  you  how,  now.  Balding  will 
tell  you.  I  will  go  to  my  room,  while  he  tells  you. 
I  will  go  to  my  room  and  pray.  I  do  not  feel 
able  to  listen."  He  turned,  falteringly.  Morrison, 
glancing  at  Ward,  supported  the  old  man  and  led 
him  from  the  room. 

Ward  turned  to  Balding,  when  they  had  gone. 


THE    PIT  261 

"  Better  tell  me  all  about  it,"  he  said.  "  Sit  down 
first." 

"  No,"  the  churchwarden  said.  "  I  'd  rather 
stand.  I  feel  restless,  in  a  manner  of  speaking, 
and  standing  '11  ease  me.  It 's  a  terrible  thing  that 's 
happened,  doctor;  a  sad  and  terrible  thing.  Not 
for  a  thousand  pound  —  nay,  for  every  pound  and 
every  penny  I  've  got  —  I  would  n't  have  had  it 
happen."  He  walked  toward  the  couch,  but  stopped 
abruptly,  his  eyes  twitching. 

"Don't  hurry,"  Ward  said,  "but  don't  be  too 
slow." 

"  It  was  like  this,  sir,"  the  churchwarden  said. 
"  The  vicar,  he  asked  me  to  dinner  to  meet  Mr. 
Harold  again.  I  wondered  why,  but  he  'd  his  own 
reasons,  as  it  turned  out.  Very  quiet  he  was  at 
dinner,  and  so  was  Mr.  Harold,  for  all  the  millions 
of  money  I  'm  told  he  's  been  making.  And  after 
dinner,  we  came  in  here,  sir;  the  vicar,  and  Mr. 
Harold,  and  Mr.  Morrison,  and  me.  It  was  late; 
we  'd  been  sitting  in  the  dining-room  a  long  time, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  I  ought  to  be  getting  home. 
I  said  so,  but  the  vicar,  he  would  n't  hear  of  it. 
'  No,'  he  said.  *  I  want  you,  Balding.  I  Ve  some- 
thing to  say  before  you  go,  and  something  to  do, 
perhaps.'  And  he  had.  It 's  done  now,  God  help 
us,  and  can't  be  undone.  We  must  bow  our  heads 
humbly,  for  well  we  know  that  all  flesh  is  as  grass, 
and  life  but  the  wind  that  moves  it,  in  a  manner  of 


262  THE    PIT 

speaking.  The  Lord  giveth,  and  the  Lord  taketh 
away.  —  But,"  he  added  grimly,  "  He  has  n't  taken 
away  the  body,  and  there  '11  be  sore  trouble,  doctor, 
and  shame  and  sorrow,  before  it 's  in  its  coffin,  and 
the  coffin  in  the  grave,  and  the  dead  at  rest,  so 
quiet,  till  the  trumpets  sound." 

"  Was  there  a  quarrel?  "  Ward  asked. 

The  churchwarden  shook  his  head.  "  This  is  how 
it  was,"  he  said.  "  The  vicar  turned  to  his  son, 
and  '  Harold,'  he  says,  *  I  've  something  to  say  to 
you,  and  I  '11  ask  you  to  listen  and  think  it  over 
very  carefully  and  slowly,  before  you  decide  what 
to  answer.  And  these  gentlemen  will  listen  too,'  he 
says,  '  and  bear  witness  before  God  that  I  have 
tried  to  do  my  duty  as  His  servant,  and  a  shep- 
herd, unworthy  as  I  am,  of  His  sheep.'  And  he 
turned  to  me.  *  Balding,'  he  says,  *  I  've  asked  you 
to  be  present  because  you  are  a  tried  friend  and 
a  leader  in  our  little  community.'  Those  were  his 
words.  *  You  have  seen  the  sin,'  he  says,  '  and  the 
scandal,  and  the  sorrow;  and  you  shall  know  this 
night  that  our  God  is  a  God  of  righteousness ;  and 
though  He  will  have  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice,  He 
will  have  justice  also,  and  will  demand  a  reckoning 
from  the  faithless  and  worldly.' ' 

The  little  churchwarden  had  raised  his  voice. 
His  glance  fell  upon  the  couch,  and  he  was  silent 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  continued  quietly.  "  I 
must  n't  keep  you  waiting,  doctor ;  but  I  want  you 


THE    PIT  263 

to  know  just  how  it  happened.  Well,  the  vicar 
turned  to  his  son.  '  Harold,'  he  says,  *  you  know 
the  affection  that  I  have  for  you.  You  know  how 
I  have  been  looking  forward  to  your  return  since 
that  first  letter,  many  weeks  ago,  when  you  told 
me  of  your  success  and  your  intention  to  come 
home.  Your  welfare  is  very  dear  to  me:  I  am 
proud  even  of  your  worldly  achievements,  of  the 
position  you  have  gained.  But  there  is  one  thing 
that  is  dearer  to  me  than  the  prosperity  of  my  own 
son,  and  that  is  the  will  of  God,  and  the  salvation 
of  His  children,  here  and  hereafter.'  —  Never,"  the 
churchwarden  went  on,  "  have  I  seen  the  vicar  look 
so  noble  and  so  sad.  *  Harold,'  he  says,  *  there 
is  a  girl  in  this  village  who  would  have  been  a  sweet 
and  God-fearing  woman,  if  her  life  had  not  been 
wrecked  for  the  idle  pleasure  of  a  man.  —  Nay,  my 
son,  I  know  and  I  understand:  nature,  and  weak 
will,  and  selfishness.  Yes.  But  one  must  pay  for 
these  things.  There  are  some  women,  alas,  so  in- 
herently vicious  that  the  wickedness  of  man  can 
taint  them  no  further.  But  this  was  a  very  dif- 
ferent case.  The  girl  was  a  good  girl,  a  bonny  girl, 
and  pure  in  her  thoughts.  And  now,  my  son,  she 
is  a  byword  in  the  village,  a  slattern,  a  drunkard, 
a  woman  without  hope,  without  honour,  without 
decency.  I  go  amongst  my  people,  and  in  their 
hearts  they  say :  "  Who  is  this  that  preaches  to 
us?  See  what  evil  his  own  son  has  wrought,  and 


264  THE    PIT 

he  goes  free,  without  reproach  or  punishment."  It 
shall  no  longer  be  so  said,  or  thought.  You  have 
come  home,  successful,  influential.  And  I  say  to 
you,  my  son,  just  what  God  has  put  into  my  heart. 
You  have  sinned.  Atone,  so  far  as  you  can  atone. 
Not  with  the  careless  charity  of  careless  men:  you 
shall  not  fling  a  few  pounds,  or  a  few  hundreds 
of  pounds,  to  this  woman,  and  count  yourself  free. 
What  she  is,  you  have  made  her.  What  she  will 
be,  and  shall  be,  yet,  you  must  make  her,  too.  You 
took  your  pleasure  when  her  face  was  fair  and 
her  ways  were  winsome.  Take  her  now,  my  son, 
from  the  mire;  soften  her  hardened  heart;  teach 
her  again  the  meaning  of  decency,  of  purity,  and 
of  faith.  That  shall  be  your  punishment.  It  shall 
also  be  your  exceeding  reward.  Will  men  jeer,  do 
you  think,  or  women  sneer?  What  matter  if  they 
do?  But  they  will  not.  Never  will  you  be  so  re- 
spected as  when  you  have  made  this  woman  your 
wife,  and  never  so  happy.  Blessed  are  the  merci- 
ful, for  they  shall  obtain  mercy.  Blessed  are  the 
meek,  for  they  shall  inherit  the  earth.  Blessed  are 
the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God.' ' 

Ward  looked  at  Balding  in  astonishment,  for  the 
little  man  was  acting,  not  narrating. 

"  Mr.  Harold  just  stood  there,"  the  churchwarden 
went  on,  "  and  looked  at  his  father.  For  quite  a 
long  time  he  stood  there,  and  never  said  a  word. 
And  at  last,  *  You  mean  Nancy?'  he  asks.  *  You 


THE    PIT  265 

really  want  me  to  marry  Nancy?  You  would  re- 
ceive her,  as  a  daughter?'  'Yes,'  says  the  vicar, 
'  and  gladly.'  *  I  'm  sorry,'  says  Mr.  Harold,  '  but 
I  can't  marry  her.'  And  he  stands  looking  at  the 
vicar,  and  the  vicar  stands  looking  at  him.  And 
then  the  vicar  puts  his  hand  into  his  pocket  —  you 
can  imagine,  doctor,  we  'd  no  idea  what  was  com- 
ing —  and  he  pulls  out  a  revolver,  poor  old  man, 
and  he  points  it  at  Mr.  Harold.  We  was  afraid 
to  move,  for  fear  he  'd  fire  it.  Mr.  Morrison,  he 
tried  to  say  something,  but  the  vicar  wouldn't 
listen.  '  This  is  between  my  son,  and  myself,  and 
God,'  he  says,  and  he  speaks  again  to  Mr.  Harold, 
who  could  n't  help  a  smile  at  the  revolver.  *  I  have 
prayed,'  he  says,  *  over  this  matter.  It  has  been 
with  me  night  and  day,  night  and  day.  And  I  say 
to  you,  you  shall  marry  that  woman.  Give  me  your 
promise  now,  or  in  the  name  of  God  I  will  inflict 
the  punishment  that  is  due.  For  the  wages  of  sin 
is  death.'  And  Mr.  Harold,  he  looks  at  his  father. 
He  was  n't  thinking  of  the  revolver,  you  could  tell 
that :  he  was  thinking  of  what  the  vicar  'd  said, 
and  the  way  he  'd  said  it,  like  a  prophet  in  Israel. 
'  Upon  my  word,'  he  says,  *  I  believe  I  would  do 
it  if  I  could ;  and  I  'm  honestly  sorry  I  cannot.' 

*  And  why  not?'  says  the  vicar.     And  Mr.  Harold, 

*  I  'm  not  free,'  he  says,  quietly.     *  I  'm  married.' 
And  the  vicar  gave  a  sudden  start,  convulsive  like; 
sure  I  am  that  he  never  meant   to  do  it,  but  his 


266  THE    PIT 

finger  was  on  the  trigger,  and  —  the  bullet  went 
home." 

Ward  nodded. 

"  Where  are  the  servants  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Do  they 
know  anything  about  what  has  happened?  " 

"  They  don't  seem  to  have  heard  the  shot,"  Bald- 
ing answered.  "  They  were  upstairs  —  in  bed  and 
asleep,  most  likely." 

"  Give  me  the  revolver,"  Ward  said. 

Balding  handed  it  to  him. 

"  There  '11  be  an  inquest,"  the  churchwarden  said 
gloomily.  "  Everything  '11  come  out  in  public.  And 
the  vicar  '11  be  arrested,  I  suppose.  Frightful. 
And  I  did  n't  even  know  he  ever  had  a  revolver. 
It  was  n't  in  his  nature.  Why,  he  would  n't  have 
shot  an  armed  burglar,  he  would  n't,  to  save  his 
own  life.  He  must  have  bought  the  pistol  specially, 
just  for  this  purpose.  He  'd  been  brooding  a  long 
time.  Poor  old  man !  " 

"  Don't  worry,"  Ward  said  quietly.  "  Harold 
was  not  shot." 

"What?"  cried  the  churchwarden.  "You  don't 
say !  "  He  sat  down.  "  I  don't  understand,"  he 
said.  "  How  did  he  come  by  his  death  ?  Was  it 
the  hand  of  God  Almighty  Himself? " 

"  Yes,"  Ward  said.  "  We  give  it  another  name 
medically,  but  it  comes  to  the  same  thing."  He  had 
taken  the  cartridges  from  the  revolver.  Mechani- 
cally, he  put  them  back. 


THE    PIT  267 


.. 


But  there  was  the  vicar  with  his  pistol ! " 
Balding  said.  "  And  then  the  shot.  Sir,  if  that 
shot  did  n't  kill  Mr.  Harold,  only  God  Himself 
could  have  done  it,  at  that  moment:  God  or  His 
angel,  like  the  angel  with  the  drawn  sword  that 
stood  against  Balaam." 

"  Harold  has  n't  a  mark  on  him,"  Ward  said. 
"  These  are  blank  cartridges.  Death  was  due  to 
heart  failure  —  the  result  of  the  sudden  shock,  of 
course,  but  led  up  to  by  years  of  self-poisoning  with 
alcohol  and  nicotine." 

"  You  don't  say?  "  the  churchwarden  muttered. 
He  was  thinking  for  the  moment  of  his  own  profit- 
able inn  and  its  staple  commodities. 

"  The  simplest  thing  in  the  world,"  Ward  said ; 
"  and  naturally,  the  most  unexpected." 

The  excitement  that  had  sustained  Balding  had 
passed;  he  seemed,  suddenly,  nerveless  and  dis- 
pirited. Ideas  no  longer  surged  in  upon  him;  he 
began  to  grope  for  them.  "  I  'm  glad  for  the 
vicar's  sake,"  he  said.  "And  so  Mr.  Harold  just 
died  of  his  own  self,  in  a  manner  of  speaking?  You 
wouldn't  have  thought  it,  would  you?  —  the  big, 
strong  man  that  he  seemed !  Well,  I  'm  truly  glad 
for  the  vicar.  It 's  bad  enough  for  him  to  lose  his 
son.  But  would  n't  it  have  been  terrible  if  he  'd 
killed  him  himself?  Poor  old  man,  he  thinks  he  did. 
I  suppose  he  'd  forgotten  about  the  blank  cart- 
ridges. P'raps  he  did  n't  rightly  think  about  the 


268  THE    PIT 

matter  at  all.  Poor,  poor  old  man !  He  's  been  so 
worrited  lately  he  'd  be  likely  to  think  anything." 

Ward  went  again  to  the  couch.  When  he  had 
made  his  previous  examination,  he  had  noticed  a 
little  locket  attached  to  the  watch-chain.  He  wished 
to  open  it.  He  did  so.  Inside  was  a  miniature 
of  a  woman's  head. 

The  head  was  Lady  Winter's.  He  knew  now  that 
Harold  Thorpe  was  her  husband.  He  had  sus- 
pected so  as  soon  as  Morrison  had  told  him  of 
Harold's  arrival,  coinciding  with  Lord  Daventry's 
recognition  of  the  millionaire  he  had  met  in  New 
York.  He  surveyed  with  curious  interest  the  body  of 
the  man  whom  she  had  loved,  or  imagined  she  loved. 
This  inert  shape  had  once  held  magic  for  her:  the 
arms  had  enfolded  her.  Life,  for  a  little  while,  had 
been  transformed,  because  of  this  thing  that  was  dead. 

He  took  out  the  miniature,  put  it  in  his  pocket- 
book,  and  closed  the  locket.  When  he  turned  round, 
the  vicar  and  Morrison  had  re-entered  the  room. 

The  old  man  did  not  seem  to  see  him.  The  shock 
of  the  catastrophe,  and  the  whole  strain  of  the 
evening,  had  been  more  than  he  could  continue  to 
endure,  and  he  was  now  in  a  state  of  semi-stupor. 
He  looked  vacantly  at  the  couch.  The  sight  of  his 
son's  body  revived  for  a  moment  the  distress  of  the 
tragedy:  he  tried  to  speak,  but  his  utterance  was' 
disconnected.  The  curate  led  him  gently  to  a  chair. 

Ward   explained  briefly   to   Morrison   about   the 


THE    PIT  269 

actual  cause  of  death.  "  It 's  no  good  telling 
the  vicar  now.  He  would  not  comprehend.  Please 
get  him  to  bed,  Morrison.  He  is  exhausted  and 
will  sleep  like  a  child.  Perhaps  he  will  be  trouble- 
some in  the  morning:  look  after  him  till  I  come. 
Balding,  you  will  go  home.  I  shall  lock  the  door 
of  this  room  and  take  the  key  with  me.  Harold 
won't  mind  dispensing  with  watchers.  He  is  too 
big  now,  or  too  little,  to  worry  about  formalities. 
I  will  communicate  with  the  coroner  and  see  if  we 
can't  avoid  an  inquest." 

Morrison  did  not  answer.  Carefully,  he  led  the 
vicar  from  the  room.  Balding  followed.  Ward 
glanced  again  at  the  body  on  the  couch.  In  spite 
of  his  medical  training  and  experience,  the  trans- 
lation of  life  into  death  still  perplexed  him.  Could 
the  dignity  of  man  be  other  than  trivial,  when  at 
any  one  of  the  moments  in  his  years  so  small  a 
chance  could  reduce  him  to  utter  silence,  conquer- 
ing his  will,  shattering  his  purpose,  and  delivering 
him  as  carrion  to  the  cleansing  worms? 

There  came  to  him  the  old,  curious  feeling  of 
being  caught  in  the  toils  of  a  relentless  system, 
which  no  human  effort  could  modify.  The  sense 
of  impotence  was  oppressive.  With  an  almost  invol- 
untary gesture  of  the  hand,  as  in  brusque  farewell 
to  the  dead,  he  went  out  and  locked  the  door.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  closing  doors  per- 
sistently throughout  the  evening. 


CHAPTER   VI 

ANEW  day  had  dawned  —  measured  by  the 
symbolism  of  the  clock  —  when  he  left  the 
vicarage  and  turned  toward  home.  As  he 
walked  along,  the  idea  of  the  insignificance  of  man 
continued  to  haunt  him.  He  conceived  the  universe 
as  a  vast,  sentient  being  —  a  mammoth  incredibly 
extended  —  of  which  the  worlds  and  the  stars  were 
minute  atoms,  clustering  into  cells,  and  building  up 
the  fabric  of  that  monstrous  bulk.  And  these  cells 
were  the  living  tissue  of  a  living  organism,  subject 
to  the  laws  that  regulate  all  animate  bodies,  attract- 
ing and  repelling,  breathing  and  shuddering,  wither- 
ing and  growing,  changing  and  being  renewed;  ex- 
isting, achieving;  servants  and  lords  of  a  brain 
and  consciousness  transcending  the  puny  imagina- 
tion of  pygmies.  And  on  this  gigantesque  body, 
parasites  crawled,  and  died:  earth-men  and  star- 
men,  they  struggled,  and  ceased;  their  mines  were 
but  the  scratches  of  insects,  their  cities  and 
pyramids  the  swelling  of  tiny  poisoned  wounds. 

He  came  to  the  path  through  the  fields,  which 
he  had  traversed  so  often  on  his  way  to  the  church. 
The  thought  of  the  pilgrimage,  with  all  that  it 


THE    PIT  271 

involved,  clung  to  him,  importantly.  Surely  this 
imagery  of  insects  and  parasites  was  unjust  to  a 
race  with  such  ideals;  groping  for  the  divine; 
stretching  out  hands  in  the  darkness;  dreaming  of 
light.  The  endurance  and  mere  cleverness  of  men 
seemed  appalling.  Rough,  harsh  and  grotesque 
when  the  race  was  stumbling  to  a  defined  form, 
they  had  gradually  evolved  beauty  and  gentleness. 
Though  savagery  and  unloveliness  lingered,  the 
march  toward  the  goal  never  ceased.  Primeval  still 
in  their  lusts,  in  their  contempt  for  the  pain  of  the 
helpless,  they  were  wonderful  in  their  loves,  their 
self-sacrifice,  their  achievements  of  deed  and  thought. 
Though  the  slaughter-house  was  more  sacred  than 
the  sanctuary ;  though  the  price  of  blood  was  quoted 
daily  as  an  item  of  business  news ;  though  Mammon 
and  Ishtar  flaunted  their  sceptres,  and  Nazareth 
was  a  mere  name,  Calvary  a  conundrum,  and  Christ 
an  outmoded  formula :  —  yet  they  had  conquered 
the  air,  harnessed  the  sea,  and  chained  fire  to  their 
chariots.  Their  empires,  rising,  decaying,  vanish- 
ing ;  their  codes  and  legends ;  their  mutable  philoso- 
phies; their  cities  built  on  the  ruins  of  cities,  and 
creeds  on  the  ruins  of  creeds ;  —  all  were  but  details 
in  the  superb  pageant  of  progress.  ^Eons  ago, 
some  swart  herald  of  history  dreamed  and  declaimed 
the  prologue;  myriads,  dreaming  still,  were  shap- 
ing the  epilogue,  with  its  immortal  disdain  of  mor- 
tality, its  demand  for  God  and  a  purpose. 


272  THE    PIT 

He  had  reached  the  point  where  he  had  met 
Morrison,  running  in  the  darkness.  His  thoughts 
reverted  to  the  curate,  with  his  simple  faith  and 
unswerving  regard  for  duty.  A  good  man,  not  re- 
moved from  his  fellows  by  any  lack  of  human 
emotion  and  temptation,  but  living  his  life  in  the 
light  of  a  clear  ideal ;  making  the  best  of  the  harsher 
conditions  that  dismayed  the  morbid;  helping  a 
little  where  he  could;  taking  joy,  when  it  came  to 
him,  gladly;  guiding  his  thoughts  to  serenity,  and 
looking  forward,  without  fear,  to  the  time  of  rest. 
AtaXa/iTrei  TO  KO\OV.  This  was  the  true  beauty  and  no- 
bility: not  in  the  fever  of  genius  or  the  fitful 
splendour  of  the  abnormal ;  but  shining  through  the 
steadfastness  of  a  life  devoted  to  the  service  of  God 
and  the  ministry  of  man.  For  man,  however  im- 
perfect and  undeveloped,  must  be  valued  by  the 
standard  of  the  better  and  the  best.  In  the  brutal, 
the  squalid,  the  repulsive,  the  incomplete,  lurks 
something,  always,  of  the  dignity  which  has  been, 
and  is,  and  shall  be.  Collier  or  potter,  ploughman 
or  labourer,  the  sot  must  be  reckoned  with  the  saint, 
the  clod  with  the  clear-brained,  the  vicious  with  the 
visionary. 

He  came  from  the  field-path  into  the  lane,  and 
passed  the  cottage  where  Lydia  and  Alice  Heath 
lived.  He  was  glad  that  they  were  soon  to  realize 
the  happiness  that  was  due  to  them.  It  seemed 
impossible  for  him  to  think  of  these  girls  without 


THE    PIT  273 

thinking  also  of  the  class  which  they  represented: 
the  brave  and  sincere,  who  refuse  to  be  disheartened 
by  dreary  days  or  tempted  by  tawdriness.  There 
was  no  need  to  despair  when  the  world  could  show, 
not  amongst  its  brilliant  and  glittering  careers,  but 
amongst  the  obscure  and  patient,  such  lives  as  these, 
and  Morrison's,  and  so  many  others,  even  in  that 
grimy  and  unleisured  district. 

As  he  came  within  sight  of  his  own  house  —  a 
darker  blur  in  the  shadows  —  he  wondered  with  what 
feelings  Harold  Thorpe  had  returned  to  the  home 
where  his  welcome  was  to  merge  so  suddenly  in 
tragedy  and  death.  Well,  he  had  gone  whither  all 
must  follow ;  a  few  years  more  or  less  —  could  they 
matter  much?  Rather,  would  it  not  be  better  that 
all  should  die;  that  life  itself  should  cease,  the 
pageant  fade,  and  the  incredible  suffering  of  the 
universe  be  over  at  last?  If  only  the  dream  could 
end,  and  sleep,  untroubled,  eternal,  erase  all 
consciousness ! 

Yet  his  strange  previsions  had  produced  in  him 
a  personal  assurance  of  the  reality  beyond  the 
dream.  Often  the  dividing  veil,  suffused  with  light, 
seemed  transparent,  and  his  senses  would  leap  al- 
most to  partial  comprehension.  The  full  meaning 
and  purpose  of  the  universe  eluded  him  still,  and 
would  continue,  he  knew,  to  elude  him:  but  the 
belief  that  a  meaning  and  purpose  existed  was  more 
than  an  idea,  a  hope,  a  creed.  To  him,  it  was  a 


274  THE    PIT 

fact,  a  part  of  experience,  in  no  way  depending  on 
variable  religious  feeling. 

Though  he  had  identified  himself  with  the  Church, 
as  a  magnificent  agent  for  good,  there  had  been 
moments  when  he  wavered  in  his  adherence,  when 
he  felt  that  the  world  had  risen  beyond  shibboleths 
and  could  no  longer  accept  doctrines  and  dogmas 
merely  because  of  their  value  for  the  multitudes. 
Yet,  perhaps,  there  was  still  need,  for  the  people, 
of  temples  and  of  priests ;  of  a  system  interwoven 
with  daily  life  and  with  daily  death;  with  joy  and 
sorrow;  with  the  trivial  and  large  happenings  of 
the  noble  and  ignoble.  Better  the  worshipped  images 
of  saints,  the  circumstance  of  sacraments  and  cere- 
monial, than  forgotten  saintliness,  decayed  ideals, 
and  the  contemptuous  indifference  of  ignorance. 
But  for  those  who  understood  —  to  whom  the  con- 
crete was  unessential,  the  abstract  intelligible  — 
there  was  a  wider  scope  of  thought,  a  higher  and 
more  humanizing  wisdom. 

Yet,  from  time  to  time,  the  simple  and  sufficient 
teaching  of  Christ  renewed  the  spell  which  was 
never  wholly  rejected.  So  many  men,  convinced  and 
confident,  were  trying  earnestly  to  revitalize  reli- 
gion :  a  new  spirit,  neither  sanctimonious  nor  sombre^ 
was  moving  them  to  forsake  apathy  and  pretence. 
In  his  normal  conduct,  Ward  identified  himself  with 
this  ideal  of  sincerity  and  service,  of  faith  and 
faithfulness.  But  in  periods  of  unrest,  the  safe- 


THE    PIT  275 

guard  of  habit  fell  from  him.  Faith  seemed  so 
shallow,  nature  so  cruel,  God  so  remote  from  human 
comprehension. 

Through  wavering  and  disquietude,  however,  the 
conviction  of  a  sustaining  will  inevitably  established 
itself.  If  life  were  a  dream,  it  was  God's  dream. 
He  could  no  longer  explain  his  own  clairvoyance 
as  due  to  coincidence  or  imagination.  There  had 
been  too  many  warnings  —  vague  or  clear,  but 
never  incorrect  —  of  happenings  to  come.  Wonder- 
ing why  he  was  affected  in  this  strange  way,  he 
laughed.  Was  it  more  mystical  than  the  fashioning 
of  a  moth's  wing,  or  the  petal  of  a  rose,  or  the 
lips  of  a  woman?  And  there  were  many  moths, 
many  roses,  many  women. 

He  had  not  entered  the  house  when  he  reached 
it,  but  continued  to  walk  by  the  placid  pool  out- 
side. He  was  tired,  yet  not  sleepy.  The  emo- 
tions of  the  night  had  produced  in  him  a  high 
degree  of  sensitiveness.  The  night,  itself  seemed 
charged  with  some  peculiar  force.  Once,  he  quiv- 
ered, involuntarily,  as  at  an  actual  touch  of  in- 
visible hands.  The  trees  that  ringed  the  pool 
seemed  to  lean  toward  him;  the  darkness  of  the 
sky  pressed  down  and  clung  about  him ;  the  ground 
uplifted  itself  — 

For  a  moment,  his  thoughts  concentrated  on 
Lady  Winter.  With  incredible  swiftness,  he  con- 
sidered the  relation  of  the  tragedy  to  her,  and  to 


276  THE    PIT 

himself.  Her  husband  was  dead.  She  was  free. 
She  loved  him  — 

He  seemed  to  see  Lord  Daventry's  face,  the  thin 
lips  curved  into  a  smile,  mockery  in  the  eyes  — 

He  closed  his  own  eyes,  and  at  once  he  saw  again 
a  man  running,  running  — 

Voices  tried  to  make  themselves  articulate. 
Fingers  plucked  at  him,  urging  him  to  some  re- 
quired movement.  Lights  flickered  around  him,  in- 
numerable dots,  merging  into  flashes  — 

With  an  effort,  he  controlled  himself.  These 
were  mere  fictions  of  hallucination.  But  there 
was  something  beyond;  something  which  he  had 
not  yet  grasped.  As  he  stood,  hesitating,  a  blaze 
of  light  swept  through  him:  in  his  head,  there 
was  a  roar,  as  of  flood  or  fire.  The  shock 
startled  him.  He  could  scarcely  realize  that  this 
was  within,  and  not  from  without;  a  mere  nervous 
affection. 

But  he  understood  that  the  tragedy  to  which  he 
had  already  been  called  was  only  the  prelude  to  a 
larger  catastrophe,  of  which  radiations  had  con- 
tinued to  reach  him,  until  they  culminated  in  this 
intense  shock.  With  his  attention  drawn  to  Mor- 
rison and  Harold  Thorpe,  he  had  ignored  the  other 
suggestions.  Now,  he  conceived  something  menac- 
ing and  sinister;  planned  on  a  vast  scale;  wolfish 
for  lives  — 

And    suddenly,    he    turned,    and    began    to    run. 


THE    PIT  277 

Leaping  a  stile,  he  crossed  the  lane,  passed  through 
an  open  gate  and  steadily  mounted  the  path  up  the 
hill.  As  he  ran,  the  noises  of  the  Chayle  colliery, 
at  the  top,  came  to  him  like  echoes  of  his  own 
thoughts ;  and  he  saw,  as  a  man  may  see  in  a  fan- 
tastic, vivid  dream,  a  monstrous  Moloch,  caged  in 
the  gloom  of  the  underworld.  He  had  a  sense  of 
tremors,  as  if  that  Horror,  eager  to  slake  its  fiery 
thirst  for  blood,  were  shattering  the  bonds  that  bar- 
riered it  from  its  victims. 

As  he  came  to  the  summit  of  the  slope  and 
touched  the  rim  of  the  level  ground,  the  sounds  from 
the  colliery  were  suddenly  distinct  and  objective: 
lights,  dimmed  by  the  slow  thinning  of  the  dark- 
ness, streamed  palely  through  the  windows  of  the 
engine-house,  or  flickered,  more  redly,  on  the  bank, 
where  men  moved  and  worked.  He  wondered  what 
their  employment  was.  His  ignorance  seemed  like 
an  accusation.  He  had  lived  so  near:  why  did  he 
know  so  little? 

He  had  been  running  swiftly,  but  easily:  now, 
he  stopped,  hesitated,  and  then  moved  toward  the 
engine-house.  A  figure  loomed  through  the  shadows : 
he  was  passing,  when  the  glare,  as  a  furnace  was 
opened,  made  the  man  clearly  visible.  It  was  Poole, 
the  under-manager. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  he  said  blankly,  recognizing  the 
doctor. 

Ward  spoke  quietly,  but  there  was  an  inflection 


278  THE    PIT 

in  his  voice  that  made  the  listener  look  at  him 
curiously. 

"  I  have  no  time  to  explain,"  he  said.  "  It  is 
a  matter  of  life  and  death.  There  is  going  to  be 
an  explosion  —  a  bad  explosion.  Get  up  all  the 
men  and  boys  who  are  in  the  pit.  At  once." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  Poole  said.  "  How  do  you 
know?  You  see,  I  can  hardly  —  " 

Ward  cut  him  short.  "  Don't  argue.  Fetch 
them  up." 

The  under-manager  was  still  reluctant.  "  You  '11 
have  to  forgive  me,  doctor,"  he  said.  "  But  this 
may  be  only  a  wild-goose  idea,  and  I  have  my  posi- 
tion to  think  of.  The  night-shift  will  soon  have 
finished,  anyhow.  Why  not  wait  till  they  come  up 
in  the  ordinary  way?  " 

"  Because  they  never  would  come  up,"  Ward 
answered.  "  Do  what  I  say,  man.  I  will  take  all 
responsibility  with  the  directors.  For  God's  sake, 
hurry."  He  put  his  hand  on  the  other's  shoulder. 
"  It  is  n't  guesswork,"  he  said.  "  I  know." 

Through  Lydia  Heath,  Poole  had  received  a 
vague  impression  that  Ward  was  credited  with  an 
eerie  gift  of  second-sight.  Some  compelling  influ- 
ence seemed  to  flow  from  him  now.  The  under- 
manager  was  affected  also  by  the  doctor's  position 
in  the  district.  For  Ward's  assured  social  stand- 
ing and  independent  income  had  caused  him  to  be 
regarded,  in  spite  of  his  simple  habits,  as  on  a  higher 


THE    PIT  279 

plane  than  an  ordinary  medical  practitioner.  His 
earnestness,  and  special  interest  in  industrial  prob- 
lems, had  enlarged  his  reputation. 

The  under-manager  wavered.  "  You  mean  it  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  come  at  this  time  to  babble 
folly  ?  "  Ward  said.  He  pushed  him  away,  gently. 
"  Go.  Men's  lives  are  in  your  hands.  The  seconds 
are  hours." 

Poole  turned,  and  began  to  run.  Ward  scarcely 
glanced  at  the  receding  figure.  A  curious  lethargy 
descended  upon  him.  The  grey  night  was  shut  out. 
He  no  longer  saw  the  flaring  lights  in  the  gloom, 
or  heard  the  hiss  of  steam,  the  rumble  of  machinery, 
the  straining  creak  of  cables  and  cages.  The  ex- 
ternal world  was  blotted  in  impenetrable  darkness, 
engulfed  in  dense  silence.  He  could  see  only  within 
himself.  A  small  globule  of  fire  was  balanced  be- 
tween the  two  hemispheres  of  his  brain.  He  watched 
it  expanding  into  a  sphere  of  serene  radiance,  cool 
and  unquivering.  Soon,  he  saw  the  face  of  a  woman 
mirrored  in  that  light:  the  eyes  shone;  the  lips 
were  red.  Gradually,  the  redness  became  flame,  the 
loveliness  was  lost,  and  the  face,  swelling  hideously, 
was  distorted  into  a  vast,  writhing  skull.  Through 
the  eyeless  sockets  he  saw  seething  fire,  lurid,  raven- 
ous, roaring  — 

He  found  himself  looking  at  Poole,  who  had 
sought  him  out ;  spoken  to  him ;  shaken  him  by  the 


280  THE    PIT 

arm.  He  did  not  know  how  long  he  had  stood, 
alone.  He  came  from  his  dreaming  as  from  another 
world. 

"  Everybody 's  up,"  the  under-manager  said. 
"  But  nothing  's  happened.  I  'm  doubting  I  '11  get 
into  trouble  over  this,  doctor." 

Ward  glanced  round.  There  were  groups  of 
men,  with  boys,  talking,  puzzled;  in  some  cases, 
sullen.  Their  voices  came  to  him  remotely,  dimly. 

He  shook  off  the  impression  of  aloofness  as  if 
it  were  an  actual  weight,  and  moved  nearer  to  the 
pit-mouth.  He  made  no  reply  to  Poole,  but  stood, 
listening,  watching. 

The  men  pointed  him  out  to  one  another.  Fol- 
lowing the  direction  of  his  gaze,  they  imitated  him, 
half  unconsciously.  Those  who  were  near  the  shaft 
moved  back  a  little.  They  were  afraid  of  what 
might  come  from  that  opening  into  the  underworld. 
Soon,  a  ring  of  men,  silent,  awed,  watched  and 
waited. 

Suddenly,  without  warning,  there  was  a  deafen- 
ing explosion,  followed  almost  immediately  by  an- 
other. A  tremendous  sheet  of  flame  leaped  up  the 
shafting,  licking  greedily  at  boards  and  plates  — 

It  died  out,  as  a  dream  dies. 

A  strangled  sob  seemed  to  come  from  the  throats 
of  the  men.  Some  leaned  against  their  fellows.  One 
fell  on  his  knees  and  began  to  pray,  audibly. 

Then,  slowly,  they  surged  round  Ward.     But  the 


THE    PIT  281 

thing  that  had  happened  was  too  wonderful  for 
them  to  comprehend.  They  were  afraid,  and  spoke 
in  whispers. 

"  He  's  saved  our  lives,"  they  murmured. 

"  Thank  God,"  said  one,  old  and  bent,  "  that  our 
wives  are  not  widows  this  grey  morn,  an'  our  bairns 
fatherless ! " 

Poole  had  clutched  Ward's  arm  convulsively. 

"  I  thought  you  were  mad !  "  he  said.  "  I  thought 
you  were  mad.  And  they  would  have  died  —  caged 
in  that  hell  —  "  His  grasp  relaxed.  "  How  did 
you  know?  "  he  cried.  "  Has  God  made  you  one 
of  His  prophets  ?  " 

"I  had  a  presentiment,"  Ward  answered  coldly. 
"  I  will  go  home  now.  I  can  do  no  good  by  staying. 
What  remains  is  your  work."  He  nodded,  and 
moved  away.  The  men  watched  him  go,  in  silence. 
His  pallid,  composed  face  impressed  them  strangely. 

As  he  descended  the  hill,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
these  men  would  perhaps  not  have  been  in  the  pit, 
but  for  his  own  efforts  to  avert  a  strike.  "  I  owed 
them  a  warning,"  he  thought.  "  But  they  will  have 
to  die  one  day  —  does  it  matter  much  when  ?  " 

He  remembered  that  many  of  them  had  wives  and 
children.  And  for  those  who  had  not  —  well,  it 
were  better  to  fall  in  the  fulness  of  time  than  to 
be  plucked  like  unripe  fruit;  better  to  sleep  when 
they  were  weary,  and  the  night  had  come,  than  to 
close  their  eyes  in  the  daylight  of  their  generation, 


282  THE    PIT 

while  the  sun  made  life  seem  fair  and  the  voices  of 
their  comrades  called  them  to  new  pleasures  or  un- 
finished tasks. 

Yet  it  seemed  to  him  that  few  had  tasks  which 
were  worth  the  finishing.  The  lunatic,  the  lover  and 
the  poet  were  perhaps  justified  in  clinging  to  life: 
the  lunatic  —  the  unnormal  man  —  pursuing  strange 
fancies  and  sometimes  achieving  strange  results; 
the  lover,  clothing  clay  with  divinity;  and  the  poet, 
imprisoning  beauty  in  words,  or  music,  or  enduring 
marble.  But  perhaps  there  was  something  of  this 
trinity  —  of  lunatic,  lover  and  poet  —  in  all  men. 

Life  must  certainly  be  desirable,  on  the  whole, 
or  nature  would  not  have  established  so  strongly 
the  mating  and  reproductive  instincts.  How  many 
in  his  own  small  circle  were  giving  effect  to  those 
instincts!  Varying  in  disposition  and  gifts,  they 
pressed  forward  to  the  same  end :  Marple,  the  chauf- 
feur; Morrison,  gentleman  and  gentle  humorist; 
Poole,  whom  he  had  just  left;  Alice  and  Lydia 
Heath;  Miss  Sands,  possibly,  and  Balding,  mature, 
but  not  unemotional;  —  even  his  brother  George, 
and  the  chorus  girl  whom  he  would  probably 
marry. 

How  instinctive  it  all  was  —  primeval,  unrea- 
soned —  in  the  vast  ma j  ority  of  men  and  women. 
Blindly,  they  recognized  their  need  and  strained 
for  its  fulfilment,  afraid  of  the  loneliness  of  uncom- 
panioned  lives. 


THE    PIT  283 

He  had  reached  the  door  of  his  house.  He  opened 
it  and  went  in.  It  was  almost  daylight. 

He  walked  quietly  upstairs,  and  into  his  room. 
His  preparations  were  soon  made,  and  he  got  into 
bed. 


CHAPTER   VII 

FOR  the  first  time  within  Miss  Sands'  experi- 
ence, Ward  did  not  come  down  for  breakfast. 
No  one  disturbed  him.  Lord  Daventry  made 
one  sarcastic  comment,  and  relapsed  into  silence. 
When  he  emerged,  Miss  Sands  had  disappeared,  and 
his  second  effort  was  wasted.  He  took  refuge  in 
Philpotts,  and  Philpotts  took  him  into  the  fresh  air 
and  consigned  him  to  the  care  of  Marple.  A  little 
run  in  the  machine,  he  considered,  would  do  his 
lordship  good.  Inwardly  protesting  against  being 
made  the  recipient  of  any  benefits  from  anyone,  in 
any  way,  his  lordship  meekly  assented. 

News  of  the  strange  events  of  the  night  had 
passed  swiftly  through  the  whole  neighbourhood, 
with  inevitable  exaggeration  and  distortion.  The 
sudden  death  of  Harold  Thorpe  was  variously  at- 
tributed to  natural,  if  startling,  conditions,  such  as 
an  apoplectic  seizure;  to  the  mania  of  the  girl 
Nancy,  frenzied  by  her  wrongs,  her  long  degrada- 
tion and  her  slavery  to  alcohol;  or  to  a  secret 
emissary  of  the  Black  Hand,  who  had  dogged  the 
footsteps  of  the  millionaire  from  far  America  and 
ruthlessly  settled  some  uncomprehended  feud.  But 


THE    PIT  285 

no  word  had  leaked  out  connecting  the  vicar  with 
his  son's  death,  though  many  remembered  and  re- 
peated awesomely  the  prophecies  from  the  pulpit, 
the  sombre  warnings  of  the  wages  of  sin.  Ward's 
association  with  the  tragedy  had  been  invested  with 
every  element  of  the  eerie  and  mysterious :  he  had 
foreseen,  foretold;  had  hastened  to  prevent  the 
slaying,  but  had  failed  by  moments. 

The  greater  marvel,  however,  of  the  pit-explosion, 
told  and  retold  by  those  whose  lives  had  been  saved, 
was  the  absorbing  and  epochal  theme.  Here  was 
no  vague,  unravelled  happening,  garbled  in  report, 
to  be  unfolded  gradually  by  the  police  and  the  local 
papers:  it  was  concerned  intimately  with  many 
households,  which  had  direct  evidence  and  a  clear 
story;  it  was  interwoven  with  the  vital  interests 
and  industry  of  the  district,  and  it  lent  itself 
peculiarly  to  emotional  colouring.  Legends  of  the 
underworld  and  of  elemental  forces  —  legends 
vague,  unfamiliar,  obscured  by  generations  of  neg- 
lect —  were  dug  up  from  sub-consciousness,  pieced 
together  by  semi-senile  minds.  Paganism,  with  its 
deities  and  demigods,  spirits  of  flood  and  spirits  of 
fire,  crept  haltingly  into  the  daylight  of  modernity. 
But  the  underlying  Methodism  of  the  people  be- 
came predominant;  the  exaltation  of  the  old  re- 
vivalist meetings  took  possession  of  them.  The  glory 
of  God,  it  was  whispered,  had  been  made  manifest; 
a  new  evangelist  had  arisen,  to  scatter  the  clouds 


286  THE    PIT 

of  materialism  and  doubt  and  reveal  once  more  the 
supremacy  of  the  spiritual,  the  pervading  activity 
of  a  beneficent  Providence.  Something  of  the  fer- 
vour that  swept  the  multitudes  when  the  Carpenter 
of  Nazareth  healed  the  maimed  and  the  blind  among 
them,  was  seen  now  through  the  scattered  home- 
steads and  villages.  Old  men  remembered  the  cer- 
tainty of  their  childhood,  repeated  disused  sayings 
from  the  Scriptures,  put  on  again  the  manner  of 
the  convert,  the  mantle  of  the  disciple.  Women, 
with  the  dignified  humility  of  those  redeemed  from 
widowhood,  gathered  in  little  groups,  gossiping, 
wondering,  scanning  the  fabric  of  the  new  miracle. 
Marple,  the  taciturn,  had  heard  rumours,  which 
he  was  unable  to  resist  transmitting  to  Lord  Dav- 
entry,  as  they  drove  slowly  on  the  Newchurch  road. 
The  old  man,  unaccustomed  to  conversation  with 
his  chauffeur,  was  at  first  negligent  and  unrespon- 
sive, but,  as  he  pieced  together  the  fragments  that 
reached  him,  his  manner  changed:  he  leaned  for- 
ward, alert,  receptive,  and  finally  ordered  that  the 
car  be  stopped,  so  that  he  could  hear  without  dis- 
traction the  whole  story.  Marple  repeated,  in  short, 
staccato  sentences,  all  that  he  had  gathered.  Lord 
Daventry  listened  attentively,  but  made  no  com- 
ment. When  the  tale  was  finished,  he  told  Marple 
to  drive  to  the  vicarage,  where  he  had  a  brief  in- 
terview with  Morrison,  and  with  the  coroner,  who 
had  just  arrived,  and  was  strolling  about  very 


THE    PIT  287 

placidly.  Afterwards  he  visited  Balding,  who  was 
duly  sensible  of  the  honour  paid  to  his  little  hos- 
telry; and  then,  after  some  trouble,  hunted  down 
Poole,  the  under-manager  at  the  Chayle  colliery. 
He  returned  home,  thoughtful,  reticent,  and  with  a 
copy  of  "  The  Guardian,"  the  local  paper,  which  had 
hastily  collected  all  the  rumours  and  the  facts,  and 
presented  them  intelligently  in  a  special  edition. 

Ward  came  down  for  luncheon,  offering  no  excuses 
for  his  late  appearance.  He  was  astonished  at  Miss 
Sands'  attitude.  She  regarded  him  with  timidity, 
yet  her  eyes  revealed  the  outreaching  of  emotion  with 
which  sensitive  women  approach  any  manifestation 
of  spiritual  mysteries.  She  was  herself  conscious 
of  this :  so,  she  felt,  might  that  Mary  whose  brother 
was  raised  from  the  dead,  have  looked  upon  the 
Master  at  whose  feet  she  sat.  Involuntarily,  her 
thoughts  passed  from  her  employer  to  Balding.  A 
faint  flush  came  to  her  cheeks  as  she  realized  that 
she  had  really  been  trying  to  look  upon  the  church- 
warden as  a  possible  suitor.  She  felt  that  she  had 
outraged  her  own  womanliness.  Measured  by  the 
standard  of  the  man  before  her,  the  little  rotund 
publican  and  pillar  of  the  Church  became  gro- 
tesquely impossible.  In  that  instant,  Balding's  fate 
was  decided,  irrevocably,  and  the  housekeeper  dedi- 
cated herself  to  her  vocation,  not  less  spiritual  than 
practical. 

Lord  Daventry  regarded  his  grandson  moodily. 


288  THE    PIT 

Once  or  twice  he  checked  himself  when  at  the  point 
of  speech,  pressing  his  lips  together  and  glancing 
corrosively  at  Miss  Sands.  But  gradually  his  ex- 
pression softened,  as  if  he  were  putting  away  per- 
plexities; his  lips  relaxed,  and  his  face,  in  repose, 
seemed  less  aquiline  and  haggard.  Lunch  was  al- 
most finished  before  he  permitted  himself  to  speak. 

"  You  slept  well?  "  he  asked,  slightly  stressing  the 
"well." 

"  Certainly,"  Ward  answered. 

"  I  am  glad  you  found  your  halo  such  a  com- 
fortable pillow,"  the  old  man  said. 

"  I  use  an  ordinary  pillow,"  Ward  said. 

"  But  not  an  ordinary  halo,"  Lord  Daventry  re- 
joined. "  However,  it  was  fitting  that  our  cherished 
Saint  John  should  acquire  the  apostolic  nimbus." 

"  I  will  assume  that  your  remarks  are  pleasantly 
humorous,"  Ward  said.  "  You  don't  mind  if  I  fail 
to  understand  them?  "  He  turned  to  Miss  Sands, 
who  was  withdrawing,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
halo.  "  Will  you  tell  Marple  that  I  shall  want 
him  in  ten  minutes?  " 

"  You  had  better  read  the  paper  before  you 
go  out,"  his  grandfather  observed,  passing  "  The 
Guardian  "  to  him. 

Ward  glanced  at  it,  and  began  to  read.  After 
some  time,  he  pushed  the  paper  away  and  sat 
quietly,  his  head  drooping  a  little.  His  eyes  seemed 
tired. 


THE    PIT  289 

"Well?"  Lord  Daventry  asked. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  Ward  answered. 

"  You  see  what  they  are  saying?  " 

"  Babble  does  n't  count,"  Ward  said.  "  I  Jm  not 
worrying  about  what  sensation-hunters  think  or 
say." 

"  You  've  given  them  something  to  think  about," 
the  old  man  said. 

"  To  tattle  about,"  Ward  answered.  "  But  what 
does  it  all  mean?  Something  happened,  last  night. 
Things  have  happened  before  —  heaps  of  things  — 
little  things.  Last  night,  it  was  a  bigger  thing  — 
more  public.  But  what  does  it  all  mean  —  the  big 
things  and  the  little  things  ?  I  'm  an  ordinary  man. 
But  last  night,  for  instance,  something  came  to  me. 
I  don't  know  what  you  call  it.  It  just  took  me, 
flooded  me,  swept  me  on.  I  was  n't  guessing.  I 
knew.  Knew  what  was  going  to  happen,  as  one 
knows  what  has  happened  already.  Saw  the  wall 
of  flame,  heard  the  roar  of  it.  And  there  have  been 
other  things  —  over  and  over  again  —  " 

"  Do  you,"  the  old  man  asked,  "  always  see  the 
future  —  or  do  you  go  back  ?  Do  you  see  things 
in  the  past  —  not  the  recent  past,  but  long  ago; 
things  that  have  not  happened  to  you,  in  this  life, 
but  may  have  happened  before  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  gone  back,"  Ward  said.  "  But  I 
could  understand  that  —  in  part,  at  least.  But 
the  future  —  " 


290  THE    PIT 

"The  thing  has  happened  before  in  our  family," 
the  old  man  said.  "  You  know  that.  Now  it  has 
cropped  out  again.  I  don't  see  anything  particu- 
larly perplexing  in  it.  You  're  just  a  highly  sen- 
sitized receiver  —  under  certain  conditions,  anyway. 
You  're  very  much  en  rapport  with  that  curious 
world  beyond  the  threshold  that  we  're  only  begin- 
ning to  investigate.  Imagine  the  inhabitants  of  that 
world,  with  their  freedom  and  range  of  motion,  their 
developed  intelligence.  How  often  must  it  happen 
that  they  will  see  conditions  that  must  inevitably 
produce  a  certain  result?  They  can  probe  where 
we  should  be  blind;  they  can  carry  the  game  of 
probabilities  to  a  much  finer  point  than  we  can. 
Last  night,  for  example,  one  or  some  of  them  dis- 
cover conditions  that  make  an  explosion  at  the  col- 
liery certain.  They  try  to  warn  us,  for  they  are 
interested  in  our  world:  they  have  been  here.  But 
what  can  they  do  ?  There  's  nothing  on  our  side 
to  receive  their  wireless  messages.  Sometimes  one 
almost  gets  across ;  and  we  hear  about  a  premoni- 
tion or  a  dream.  But  as  a  rule  the  effort  is  wasted. 
Here,  they  find  you :  there  's  something  about  you 
—  mental  or  physical,  electric  or  psychic  —  a  little 
more  phosphorus,  a  little  less  acid  —  an  extra  cell  — 
perhaps  a  brain  convolution  —  anyway  you  're  dif- 
ferent. They  can  make  you  understand.  You  're 
the  receiver  for  their  messages." 

"  That 's    pretty    much    the    explanation    I    had 


THE    PIT  291 

worked  out,"  Ward  said.  "  And  yet  — "  He 
stopped,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  following  some 
movement.  "  It 's  so  far  away,"  he  said.  "  So  far 
ahead.  How  can  they  tell  years  beforehand?  " 

"  They  can't,"  Lord  Daventry  said.  "  They  can 
only  tell  you  probabilities.  They  can  reason  from 
cause  to  effect.  But  they  may  make  mistakes.  They 
are  not  infallible." 

"  Of  course,"  Ward  said.  "  Of  course.  Proba- 
bilities, not  inevitabilities,  when  there 's  room  for 
other  conditions  to  creep  in."  His  eyes  still  fol- 
lowed the  movement  in  the  air. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  ?  "  his  grandfather 
asked,  watching  him. 

Ward  did  not  answer.  A  picture  was  forming 
itself  before  him  —  a  picture  that  he  had  seen  be- 
fore, of  a  woman  in  a  darkened  room.  With  a 
straining  movement  of  the  head,  he  threw  off  the 
obsession,  as  if  it  were  physical. 

"  I  must  go  out,"  he  said.  "  There  are  several 
things  I  should  have  done  —  early.  It  was  silly 
to  sleep  when  the  world  was  wide  awake."  He  moved 
to  the  door.  "  Would  you  care  to  come  with  me?  " 

"  If  you  are  thinking  of  the  coroner  and  the 
affair  at  the  vicarage,"  Lord  Daventry  said,  "  you 
need  not  bother.  I  have  settled  all  that  —  so  far 
as  it  can  be  settled  at  present." 

"  Thank  you,"  Ward  said.  "  I  was  wondering 
why  he  had  n't  turned  up  before  now." 


292  THE    PIT 

"  I  told  him  not  to  disturb  you,"  Lord  Daventry 
said. 

Ward  glanced  at  him.  He  knew  that  the  old 
man's  consideration,  curtly  expressed,  conveyed  deep 
feeling. 

"  There  was  a  policeman  pottering  about,"  Lord 
Daventry  continued.  "  He  had  been  worrying  be- 
cause he  could  not  get  into  the  room.  Morrison 
said  you  had  the  key.  So  the  representative  of  law 
and  order  had  forced  the  catch  of  the  window  and 
climbed  in.  I  sent  him  away,  of  course.  The  coro- 
ner had  driven  over  just  before  I  got  there.  He 
was  not  worrying.  I  have  rarely  met  a  more  satis- 
factory nonentity.  I  told  him  to  keep  on  not 
worrying  until  he  heard  from  you.  He  seemed 
quite  contented  to  leave  the  matter  in  your  hands. 
Nothing  else  required  attention,  so  I  came  back  for 
lunch." 

"  You  have  been  very  busy,"  Ward  said,  "  and 
very  thoughtful."  He  placed  his  hand  on  the  old 
man's  arm,  and  they  went  out  together. 

They  drove  to  the  vicarage,  which  presented  an 
air  of  dreariness  and  oppression,  as  if  devitalized 
by  human  consciousness  of  the  tragedy  that  had 
taken  place.  It  was  a  windless  day,  and  the  still- 
ness of  the  trees,  the  utter  quietude  of  the  garden, 
increased  the  impression  of  gloom. 

Morrison  met  them  and  remained  with  Lord 
Daventry  while  Ward  went  in  to  look  again  at  the 


THE    PIT  293 

dead  man.  He  locked  the  door  when  he  came  out, 
and  gave  the  key  to  Morrison.  Afterwards  they  all 
went  up  to  see  the  vicar,  who  was  sitting  in  an 
easy  chair  in  his  bedroom.  His  mind  was  still  not 
clear.  He  scarcely  noticed  the  visit;  did  not  speak 
at  all;  seemed  lethargic,  without  initiative. 

Lord  Daventry  was  glad  to  get  away;  even  Mor- 
rison's chatter  —  the  curate  had  resumed  a  little 
of  his  customary  vivacity  —  could  scarcely  pene- 
trate the  sombreness  in  which  the  whole  place  was 
enveloped. 

The  gate  was  opened  for  them  by  the  venerable 
gardener,  Timmins.  He  too  seemed  apathetic, 
stunned  by  the  shock  of  his  young  master's  death; 
and  he  allowed  the  gate  to  swing  to  prematurely, 
compelling  Lord  Daventry  to  move  with  more  ce- 
lerity than  dignity.  The  ancient  gardener  slowly 
realized  his  fault. 

"  I  'm  sorry,  doctor,"  he  said.  "  I  did  n't  mean 
for  to  do  it.  But  my  eyes  was  all  of  a  blur.  It 's 
them  dratted  chickens  an*  things ;  they  don't  let 
me  see  plain.  I  'm  gettin'  mortal  old,  like  the 
vicar.  But  Mr.  Harold,  he  won't  get  old,  will  he? 
Cut  off  in  the  flower  of  his  youth,  God  help  us  all, 
an'  sent  to  the  eternal  judgment.  An'  may  God 
have  mercy  on  his  soul.  I  did  n't  think,  when  I 
went  to  meet  him,  an'  waited  for  him  them  many 
times,  I  did  n't  think  it  would  end  like  this.  An* 
now  he  's  sleepin',  an'  won't  never  wake  this  side  o' 


294  THE    PIT 

the  judgment  day.  An'  I  knowed  him  when  he  was 
a  young  youth,  I  did.  But  we  '11  all  come  to  it 
sooner  or  later.  We  '11  all  come  to  it."  He  shook 
his  head,  ominously. 

"  He  was  very  fond  of  Harold,"  Ward  said  as 
they  drove  away.  "  A  dog's  affection." 

Lord  Daventry  was  thinking  of  the  vicar.  "  I 
am  sorry  Thorpe  has  given  way  so  completely,"  he 
said.  "  But,  of  course,  at  his  age  —  "  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "  As  for  the  lugubrious  individual 
who  opened  the  gate  for  us,  for  a  fleeting  instant, 
he  seemed  extremely  like  his  own  ghost,  unvaleted." 
He  relapsed  into  silence.  The  words  had  evoked  an 
image  of  Philpotts  deftly  touching  up  a  silent  figure, 
preparing  it  for  its  last  earthly  ceremonial,  before 
the  coffin  was  nailed  down  and  the  comedy  com- 
pleted. He  resented  the  melancholy  evidence  of  age 
obtruded  by  the  vicar  and  his  gardener.  For  when 
one's  contemporaries  are  old,  one  is  old  also,  and 
it  is  annoying  to  be  reminded  of  commonplace 
platitudes. 

Ward  commenced  his  round  of  professional  visits. 
It  was  late  when  they  returned  home,  and  dinner 
was  ready. 


CHAPTER    VIH 

"T  WONDER,"  Lord  Daventry  said,  looking  at 
•  his  coffee,  "  whether  Harold  Thorpe  was 
married?  Perhaps  he  had  a  wife  who  will 
outwardly  mourn,  and  inwardly  rejoice,  at  this  un- 
expected and  permanent  separation.  Eh?  It  has 
occurred  to  me  that  Harold's  homecoming  and  the 
arrival  of  my  friend  the  millionaire  from  America 
may  prove  to  be  so  closely  connected  that  it  would 
be  difficult  to  separate  the  two  occurrences.  Eh?" 
He  lifted  his  cup,  and  put  it  down.  Philpotts  did 
not  permit  him  to  drink  coffee  after  dinner,  but  it 
was  the  old  man's  invariable  custom  to  have  coffee 
served  and  to  pretend  that  he  might  drink  it,  if  he 
cared  to  run  the  risk  of  insomnia. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  Ward  said.  "  Harold 
was  your  millionaire.  When  he  is  buried,  you  will 
be  able  to  forget  him." 

"  I  never  forget,"  the  old  man  said.  "  Sometimes 
I  refuse  to  remember.  That  is  a  very  different 
thing.  But  I  should  be  sorry  to  imitate  the  senility 
of  your  friend  the  vicar.  I  prefer  to  live  with 
complete  consciousness  of  all  that  living  means,  and 
to  die,  when  I  have  to  die,  with  complete  conscious- 


296  THE    PIT 

ness  of  all  that  dying  means.  I  dislike  this  modern 
tendency  to  shirk  realities." 

Ward  was  silent  for  some  time.  Life,  death,  con- 
sciousness —  the  words  came  strangely  to  him  for 
the  moment,  like  little  lettered  labels  drifting  through 
a  dream,  waiting  to  attach  themselves. 

"  So  you  think  we  are  shirkers  ?  "  he  asked,  at 
last. 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Not  wilj 
fully,  of  course.  You  don't  intend  to  shirk.  You 
have  all  sorts  of  beautiful  fads  and  theories,  but 
you  are  not  willing  to  make  the  effort  to  carry 
them  into  practice.  You  dream  of  universal  peace 
—  and  build  more  Dreadnoughts.  You  preach 
Christ  —  and  worship  mammon.  You  pretend  to 
reverence  woman  —  and  regard  her  chiefly  as  a  sex 
convenience.  It  is  all  perfectly  natural,  and  very 
amusing.  But  I  prefer  my  own  way.  I  have  never 
cultivated  any  annoying  ideals  that  might  interfere 
with  my  simple  habits.  You,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
always  trying  not  to  cultivate  any  habits  that  might 
interfere  with  your  irritating  theories.  I  imagine 
that  the  effort  is  sometimes  distressing.  Eh?  "  He 
looked  steadily  at  his  grandson. 

"  I  suppose  we  do  shirk,"  Ward  said.  "  Yes, 
We  talk  too  much.  We  don't  act.  Christ  acted. 
He  brought  his  vision  into  daily  life,  though  it 
meant  crucifixion.  We  have  n't  grit.  We  tell  others 
what  to  do  —  but  we  shirk  doing  it  ourselves.  We 


THE    PIT  297 

make  excuses  for  ourselves.  We  see  what  is  going 
to  happen  —  but  we  let  it  happen."  He  seemed 
less  composed  than  usual,  as  if  the  strain  of  re- 
cent events  had  overtaxed  his  reserves  of  nervous 
force. 

"  And  you  yourself? "  Lord  Daventry  said. 
"  You  are  prepared  j  ust  to  —  let  things  happen  ?  " 

Ward  returned  his  grandfather's  gaze.  In  the 
old  man,  he  saw  embodied  a  dead  generation.  Not 
from  him,  or  from  what  he  represented,  could  the 
new  generations  hope  for  counsel  or  comfort  in  the 
problems  that  they  themselves  had  fashioned,  as 
their  knowledge  widened  and  their  vision  seemed 
clearer,  but  their  heritage  of  passions  still  perplexed 
them.  For  though  the  old  had  their  own  wisdom 
and  could  give  affection,  open  or  concealed,  they 
could  not  give  complete  comprehension:  they  were 
outmoded;  they  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the 
gulf  of  years,  which  none  could  cross,  hither  or 
thither. 

"  Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead,"  he  murmured. 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  slightly  disconcerted. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Ward  said.  "  I  was  think- 
ing aloud:  thinking  out  the  answer  to  your  ques- 
tion. No,  I  am  not  prepared  just  to  let  things 
happen.  I  am  going  my  own  way." 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  Lord  Daventry  said.  "  Of 
course,  I  do  not  know  yet  what  you  mean  by  your 
own  way,  but  I  hope  you  do  not  intend  that  it  shall 


298  THE    PIT 

be  littered  with  petticoats.  Petticoats  and  a  halo 
seem  distinctly  incongruous." 

"  That  has  been  the  teaching  of  the  past,"  Ward 
replied.  "  Like  so  many  of  the  teachings  of  the 
past,  it  is  absurd,  and  we  are  beginning  to  recog- 
nize the  absurdity.  I  am  going  my  own  way  be- 
cause I  believe  it  is  right.  I  do  not  care  one  iota 
about  the  views  of  the  Elizabethan  or  Victorian  era." 

"  Very  well,"  the  old  man  said.  "  Very  well.  I 
shall  await  the  outcome  with  considerable  curiosity. 
But  I  may  be  permitted  to  warn  you  that  you  must 
be  prepared  for  certain  eventualities  —  either  seduc- 
tive or  disagreeable.  I  speak,  of  course,  with  ex- 
cessive diffidence,  as  merely  a  representative  — 
accidentally  unburied  —  of  the  Victorian  era." 

The  surgery  bell  rang. 

Ward  rose. 

"  I  think  I  am  prepared  for  most  eventualities," 
he  said.  "  You  will  excuse  me?  I  will  answer  that 
ring  myself." 

He  walked  through  his  consulting  room  into  the 
surgery,  and  opened  the  outer  door.  He  saw  two 
figures.  One  of  them,  for  a  moment,  he  did  not 
identify.  Then  he  recognized  James  Harrington. 
Lady  Winter  was  with  her  brother-in-law. 

He  moved  to  one  side,  without  speaking,  and  they 
came  in.  He  closed  the  door. 

In  the  light  of  the  surgery  lamp,  Lady  Winter 
looked  pale  and  tired. 


THE    PIT  299 

"  You  did  not  answer  my  note,"  she  said.  "  So 
I  have  come  to  my  doctor's  surgery,  like  any  other 
patient." 

Harrington's  eyes  were  searching  Ward's  face 
persistently. 

"  It 's  a  strange  tale  men  are  telling  of  you, 
Dr.  Ward,"  he  said. 

"In  what  way?"  Ward  asked. 

"  In  Christ's  way,  I  'm  thinking,"  Harrington 
answered,  slowly.  "  Leastwise,  not  in  any  way  that 
ordinary  folk  are  familiar  with.  'T  will  be  a  long 
time  before  people  hereabouts  forget  the  story.  By 
all  accounts,  there  are  men  living  this  day  who 
should  rightly  be  dead,  and  boys  who  'd  never  have 
known  what  it  was  to  be  men,  but  for  you.  Sir, 
you  have  done  a  wonderful  thing." 

Ward  made  no  reply. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me? "  he  said,  to  Lady 
Winter. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  looking  into  his  eyes. 

He  took  her  into  the  consulting  room.  Harring- 
ton remained  in  the  surgery. 


CHAPTER   IX 

SHE  would  not  sit  down  at  first,  but  stood 
near  him,  following  him,  half  unconsciously, 
when  he  moved  away.  The  action  jarred  his 
strained  nerves.  He  moved  a  chair  forward. 

"  If  you  will  sit  down,  I  shall  be  able  to  listen 
to  you.  If  you  insist  on  standing,  please  be  as 
brief  as  possible." 

"  Nerves  out  of  order?  "  she  asked,  settling  her- 
self in  the  chair. 

"  I  am  all  right,"  he  answered.  "  It 's  the  uni- 
verse that  is  out  of  order,  for  the  moment."  He 
laughed,  then  closed  his  lips,  and  waited. 

She  did  not  speak  for  some  time,  but  watched 
him.  Her  right  hand,  resting  on  the  arm  of  the 
chair,  began  to  beat  a  tattoo. 

"  Please  don't,"  he  said,  curtly. 

"  More  trouble  with  the  universe?  "  she  asked. 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  You  don't  ask  why  I  have  come  to  see  you," 
she  said,  after  a  little  while. 

"  Why  should  I  ask  ?  "  he  answered.  "  You  will 
tell  me  when  it  suits  you.  I  can  wait.  I  am  not 
curious." 


THE    PIT  301 

She  looked  at  him  again  for  some  time,  as  if 
trying  to  fathom  his  mood. 

"  I  came  to  you,"  she  said,  "  because  you  would 
not  come  to  me.  You  see,  I  am  a  woman." 

"  I  understand,"  he  said. 

"  I  believe  you  do,"  she  said.  "  You  understand 
so  many  things,  that  you  may  even  understand  what 
a  woman  never  understands:  herself.  Of  course, 
your  grandfather  thinks  that  he  understands.  He 
classifies  all  women  as  good  or  bad.  He  does  n't 
know  any  intermediate  stage.  I  suppose  he  is 
very  clever  to  have  lived  so  long,  and  realized  so 
little.  Women  are  never  in  anything  else  but  an 
intermediate  stage.  That  sounds  funny,  but  it 's 
true.  They  are  always  going  up,  or  coming 
down.  Of  course,  I  mean  real  women,  not  pre- 
Victorian  survivals.  The  best  woman  in  the  world 
has  bad  streaks,  but  she  won't  admit  it.  The 
worst  woman  has  good  streaks,  but  she  does  n't 
advertise." 

She  spoke  rapidly  and  restlessly,  watching  Ward's 
face.  He  stood  quite  still,  waiting. 

"  You  don't  help  me  much,"  she  said.  Then  the 
feeling  of  futility  passed.  She  was  silent,  in  her 
turn,  for  a  little  while.  At  last,  quite  composedly, 
she  asked: 

"  Will  you  tell  me  the  true  cause  of  Harold 
Thorpe's  death?" 

"  Heart  failure,  due  to  a  sudden  shock." 


302  THE    PIT 

"  I  thought  he  was  stronger,"  she  said ;  and 
added :  "  He  was  my  husband." 

Ward  nodded. 

"  Yes." 

"  You  knew?  "  she  asked,  but  without  surprise. 

"Yes;  I  knew." 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  "  whether  there  are  any 
papers  or  photographs  that  might  connect  me  pub- 
licly with  Harold?  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  worry,"  he  said. 

"  Perhaps  you  consider  me  selfish,"  she  said. 
"  You  may  wonder  why  I  do  not  show  more  emo- 
tion. Harold  has  been  dead  to  me  for  a  long  time. 
Indeed,  he  never  lived.  I  did  not  love  him.  I  loved 
something  that  my  imagination  created.  But  that 
something  never  had  any  existence  apart  from  my 
imagination.  The  actual  reality  was  very  different, 
and  very  distressing." 

"  You  did  not  get  a  divorce?  "  he  asked. 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 

She  did  not  answer  his  question.  He  remembered 
that  she  was  a  Catholic. 

"Well,  you  have  your  divorce  now,"  he  said. 
"  Final  and  unrestricted." 

"  Yes,"  she  said.     "  I  am  free  now." 

He  looked  down  upon  her.  The  words  irritated 
him,  yet  he  could  see  in  them  a  deeper  meaning  than 
the  obvious  one.  After  all,  she  had  not  drawn  much, 


THE    PIT  303 

so  far,  from  life's  lottery:  a  loveless  marriage  with 
an  old  man,  and  then  a  marriage  of  a  moment  with 
a  careless  libertine.  Her  girlhood  had  been  fettered 
by  poverty  and  narrow  duties.  She  had  been  gov- 
erned by  dwarfing  conventions  which  hedged  the 
letter  of  the  moral  law  with  a  false  divinity,  and 
ignored  the  spirit.  Was  it  strange  if  she  had  been 
perplexed  later,  finding  her  own  moods  more  beau- 
tiful than  those  early  codes?  It  was  time  that  she 
began  to  feel  free  at  last,  knowing  the  realities  of 
good  and  evil,  and  walking  in  the  path  that  she 
herself  had  chosen  and  desired.  And  yet,  was  there 
any  real  freedom?  Could  human  will  ever  escape 
completely  from  inherited  shackles,  conquer  environ- 
ment and  habit,  and  mould  a  new  destiny? 

"  You  have  a  curious  trick  of  looking  right 
through  people,"  she  said.  "  What  is  it  you  see  ? 
the  future?" 

"  Not  always  the  future,"  he  answered.  "  Some- 
times, the  past,  and  sometimes,  nothing." 

"  You  are  a  strange  man,"  she  said.  "  I  have 
always  known  that.  You  frighten  me,  and  yet  you 
hold  me.  I  cannot  get  away  from  you.  God  knows, 
I  don't  want  to.  I  came  to  you  to-night  because 
I  could  n't  wait.  I  want  to  know  what  my  life  is 
going  to  be.  I  have  heard  people  talking  about 
you,  wherever  I  went;  talking  of  this  strange  gift 
of  yours.  James  told  me  all  about  the  explosion 
at  the  pit.  I  have  never  known  anyone  so  moved. 


304  THE    PIT 

He  said  the  men  at  the  pit  could  n't  forget  your 
face.  There  was  a  light  on  it."  She  stopped,  and 
then  —  "  Oh,  my  dear !  "  she  said,  "  can't  you  see 
what  it  all  means  to  a  woman?  I  have  loved  you 
from  the  beginning.  Loved  you,  and  been  afraid 
of  you.  Loved  you  because  I  was  afraid  of  you, 
perhaps.  You  were  so  still  and  strong.  You  had 
strange  ways.  You  talked  of  the  past  and  the 
future,  and  I  did  not  know  what  you  meant.  And 
now  you  seem  like  a  prophet  or  a  saint,  and  yet 
you  are  not  weak  or  womanish.  Just  a  man. 
You  're  not  the  monkish  type ;  the  old  type  I  could 
never  come  near  to;  meek  and  holy  and  unsexed. 
You  can  be  harsh  and  cruel.  You  have  passions, 
needs,  humanness.  You  understand  the  devil,  and 
yet  you  walk  with  God.  —  Oh,  my  dear !  "  she  cried : 
"  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  ?  I  want  you. 
I  cannot  do  without  you.  And  once  you  seemed  to 
love  me.  Did  n't  you?  Was  it  a  mistake?  Or  were 
you  afraid  of  something?  Did  you  see  something, 
with  that  terrible  gift  of  yours?  What  was  it  that 
you  spoke  about  by  the  lake  at  Daventry?  Dark- 
ness, you  said,  and  lights  that  went  out.  And 
that  strange  dream  afterwards  —  the  night  that 
you  called  me,  and  I  seemed  to  come  to  you. 
Wanted  to  come  to  you.  The  strange  room  —  and 
then  the  darkness.  Always,  the  darkness!  What 
does  it  mean?  Tell  me." 

As  he  stood  and  looked  at  her,  all  the  passion 


THE    PIT  305 

that  had  drawn  him  toward  her  from  their  first 
meeting,  flamed  in  him  again,  intense  and  urgent. 
It  seemed  futile  to  resist  an  attraction  so  over- 
whelming, based  on  some  fundamental  correspond- 
ence of  their  natures.  Was  he  to  struggle  always, 
and  always,  in  the  end,  surrender  —  incapable  of 
the  simple,  unswerving  resolution  of  a  man  like 
Morrison?  Destiny  or  chance,  prevision  or  delu- 
sion —  could  he  even  now  distinguish  with  certainty 
between  them? 

Eternity  seemed  to  spread  sections  before  him, 
and  mock  him  with  the  moment.  The  life  of  man 
was  one  drop  of  rain.  Did  it  count  in  the  flowing 
river  twisting  forward  to  the  sea? 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  It  counts.     Counts  forever." 

He  had  spoken  aloud.  She  looked  at  him  won- 
deringly. 

"What  counts?" 

"  Everything,"  he  answered.  "  You  and  I.  The 
moment.  The  past.  The  future." 

"  Can't  we  make  our  own  future?  "  she  asked. 

"  We  are  going  to,"  he  said.  "  Child,  you  and 
I  must  begin  to  be  grown  up.  We  can't  be  children 
always.  We  must  live  the  grown-up  life." 

"  I  want  to,"  she  said.  "  A  bigger  and  more 
beautiful  life  than  I  ever  used  to  dream  of.  That 
is  why  I  came  to  you  —  a  woman  to  her  lover. 
For  I  am  grown  up  at  last.  I  don't  want  to  ex- 
plain away  the  past,  or  to  excuse  it,  or  to  forget 


306  THE    PIT 

it.  I  know  I  have  not  been  normal.  I  know  I  am 
not  normal  now.  I  don't  wish  to  be  normal.  I 
wish  to  be  myself,  always,  but  the  best  self,  not 
the  worst  self.  And  even  at  my  worst,  I  think  I 
have  been  better  than  many  women  who  live  per- 
fectly respectable  lives  and  tell  perfectly  respect- 
able lies;  women  who  imagine  they  have  not  done 
things  because  they  will  not  admit  having  done 
them;  who  cheat  themselves  even  in  their  thoughts 
—  afraid  to  recognize  their  own  natures,  their  own 
desires,  their  own  passions.  I  have  been  frank  with 
myself.  That  is  all.  Is  it  a  very  terrible  thing?  " 

"  We  must  not  evade  the  issue,"  he  said.  "  We 
may  be  frank  with  ourselves.  We  may  despise  the 
small  deceptions.  We  may  see  far  and  clearly.  But 
we  are  decadent  —  you  and  I." 

"Decadent?"  she  repeated.  "You  said  that 
once  before,  I  remember  —  that  I  was  decadent." 
She  spoke  simply,  without  anger  or  resentment. 

"  We  are  both  decadent,"  he  said.  "  It  does  n't 
help  us  that  thousands  of  others  are  worse  than 
we  are;  have  less  grip;  less  intellect.  If  we  are 
worth  anything,  we  must  be  frank  all  through.  It 's 
no  good  my  telling  myself  that  I  have  lived  decently 
and  done  some  work.  It 's  quite  true.  But  there  's 
something  else.  I  have  to  look  underneath  the  sur- 
face —  at  the  dreams,  the  passion,  the  fever.  Other 
men  have  their  rough  times.  But  this  is  something 
different." 


THE    PIT  307 

"  You  are  sure  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  ought  to  know,"  he  answered.  "  It 's  the 
devil  of  heredity.  But  in  this  case  the  name  of 
the  devil  is  Legion." 

"  And  are  there  no  angels  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Surely, 
with  your  strange  gift  —  seeing  the  future  like  a 
prophet  of  God  —  catching  glimpses  of  the  long- 
dead  past  —  don't  you  feel  that  you  outvalue  the 
little  men  —  that  you  are  too  big  for  rules  and 
regulations  and  restrictions  —  that  the  good  in  you 
is  far  too  vast  to  be  buried  by  the  evil?" 

"  I  see  what  I  know  to  be  right,"  he  answered. 
"  I  want  to  choose  it  —  as  Christ  chose  it,  accept- 
ing the  crucifixion  of  the  humanity  in  him,  beau- 
tiful as  it  was,  for  the  sake  of  the  something  that 
was  finer  and  more  real." 

"  But  I  thought  it  was  all  discarded  —  this  old 
asceticism,  this  denunciation  of  the  flesh,  this  monk- 
ish self-scourging?  It  seems  so  false  and  futile  to 
me,  so  cowardly." 

"  It  is  n't  the  flesh  we  denounce ;  it  is  the  tainted 
flesh,  the  tainted  brain.  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you 
that  there  was  more  than  one  meaning  in  the  state- 
ment that  Jesus  belonged  to  the  Royal  House  of 
David?  The  chroniclers  bungled  the  genealogy,  but 
they  wanted  to  establish  the  fact.  They  did  n't 
realize  that  the  Messiah  inherited  the  blood  of  David 
—  the  blood  that  was  in  Solomon  —  the  blood  that 
had  coveted  Bathsheba,  and  was  to  covet  the  Queen 


308  THE    PIT 

of  Sheba,  and  the  daughter  of  Pharaoh,  and  many 
strange  women  .  .  .  So,  if  you  choose  to  read  it, 
there  was  perhaps  a  double  meaning  in  the  story 
of  the  crucifixion." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  wish  to 
believe  it." 

"  It  is  only  an  idea,"  he  said.     "  Let  it  pass." 

"God  meant  us  to  live  our  own  lives,"  she  said. 
"  We  may  be  handicapped  by  the  past.  We  may 
be  tainted,  as  you  call  it.  But  we  can  rise  beyond 
the  handicap,  beyond  the  taint.  It  is  n't  brave  to 
fling  oneself  away  because  one's  great-great-grand- 
father was  wilful  and  wicked,  or  even  because  one 
has  been  wicked  oneself.  It  is  n't  right.  I  don't 
care  what  tendencies  we  may  have.  We  can  over- 
come them." 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said.  "  But  I  must  accept  for 
myself  what  I  proclaim  for  others.  I  don't  believe 
that  the  vicious  should  perpetuate  themselves  —  the 
criminal,  the  imbecile,  the  diseased.  We  may  not 
like  it,  but  we  might  not  like  being  born  Hotten- 
tots, or  pigs.  We  have  to  accept  our  nature :  make 
the  best  of  it,  of  course,  but  accept  it.  The  world 
is  going  to  the  devil,  through  sentimentality,  self- 
pity,  self-excusing,  self-exemption.  Some  of  us  have 
to  do  the  right  thing,  even  if  we  pay  a  price  that 
seems  unfair." 

"  But  why  should  we  always  look  back  or  for- 
ward? Cannot  we  take  something  on  trust?  You 


THE    PIT  309 

have  talked  of  Christ.  Did  n't  he  say,  *  Take  no 
thought  for  the  morrow.  Sufficient  unto  the  day 
is  the  evil  thereof  '?  " 

"  I  know,"  he  said.  "  I  know.  But  when  the 
night  comes  —  and  the  darkness  ?  " 

"  Always  the  darkness  !  "  she  said.  "  Why  do 
you  repeat  the  word?  What  is  it  that  you  have 
seen  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer.     She  rose,  and  came  to  him. 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  "  she  said.  "  Tell  me.  I  want 
to  know  everything.  I  'm  not  afraid.  I  only  want 
to  know.  Tell  me  what  it  is  that  has  happened  in 
the  past  —  if  anything  has  happened.  Tell  me 
what  it  is  that  is  waiting  in  the  future.  I  don't 
care.  Nothing  matters  —  but  you.  Why  won't  you 
answer?  Am  I  so  terrible  to  you?  —  Dear,  I  love 
you  so  much,  so  very  much.  I  don't  think  anyone 
in  the  world  has  ever  been  loved  as  I  love  you.  If 
you  are  afraid  of  me,  and  afraid  of  yourself  — 
is  n't  there  something  that  we  can  do  ?  Can't  we  rise 
beyond  this  destiny  that  glowers  at  us  —  beyond 
ourselves  —  and  find  out  something  that  is  different 
from  the  little  everyday  life,  bigger  and  better  and 
finer?  I  don't  want  the  ordinary  life.  I  will  give 
up  all  that  most  people  mean  by  love.  But  I  want 
to  be  near  you  always;  to  feel  that  I  belong  to 
you;  that  you  love  me  and  want  me  and  are  glad 
to  have  me.  Oh,  my  dear,  this  is  bigger  and  better 
than  I  am.  I  am  lost  in  it.  It  carries  me  away. 


310  THE    PIT 

I  can  see  only  beauty  —  loveliness  everywhere,  flood- 
ing the  world.  Dear,  there  is  a  mystery  in  sex. 
We  know  there  is.  It  pervades  the  universe.  Is  n't 
it  vaster  and  more  wonderful  than  our  little  thoughts 
have  imagined  it?  Our  foolish  customs  and  habits 
and  conventions  have  only  touched  the  fringe  of  it. 
Can't  we  give  up  the  outside  things,  and  take  the 
things  that  matter  —  the  spirit  of  love,  the  soul, 
the  essence?  " 

"  I  believe  that  some  men  and  women  could  do 
it,"  he  answered.  "  They  could  give  up  the  symbols, 
and  retain  the  reality.  They  could  live  together 
and  find  the  ideal  of  love  in  complete  comradeship. 
Sex  is  bigger  than  sexuality.  But  we  could  n't  do 
it.  At  any  rate,  I  could  n't.  I  'm  three-quarters 
animal.  I  don't  condemn  the  animal.  I  like  it,  in 
its  proper  place.  But  mine  is  n't  the  right  kind  of 
animalism.  It 's  wrong.  Altogether  wrong." 

"  Can't  we  try?  "  she  asked.  "  Even  if  we  fail 
—  would  it  matter  very  much?" 

"  Please  sit  down,"  he  said.  "  Yes,  it  would 
matter.  It  has  mattered  before,  and  it  will  matter 
again  and  forever.  We  've  got  to  break  out  of  the 
habit  of  giving  way." 

"  There  's  something  you  have  n't  told  me,"  she 
said.  "  Something  that  frightens  you  —  for  my 
sake ;  not  your  own.  You  'd  take  the  risk  then. 
'Any  man  would.  Please  tell  me.  There  was  a 
dream  —  a  vision,  or  something.  Lights,  and  then 


THE    PIT  311 

darkness.  I  want  to  know.  You  've  no  right  to 
send  me  away,  and  keep  the  truth  from  me.  What 
is  it?  Are  you  afraid  I  should  change?  Or  drag 
you  down?  Or  that  you  would  drag  me  down?" 
She  watched  his  eyes.  "  You  are  afraid  you  would 
hurt  me.  Is  that  it?  Ah,  I  can  see!  What  was 
it  that  came  to  me  that  strange  night,  when  you  put 
your  will  into  me?  What  was  :t?  You  hurt  me. 
Yes.  In  the  darkness.  Is  that  it?  You  are  afraid 
you  would  hurt  me  —  kill  me  perhaps  ?  As  if  that 
mattered !  Dear,  if  I  've  only  been  with  you,  I 
don't  care  what  happens."  She  laughed,  leaning 
against  him,  pressing  him  to  her. 

The  room  grew  dark  to  him.  He  could  see  noth- 
ing; hear  only  a  sound  of  breathing.  Then  he  felt 
his  fingers  on  her  throat. 

As  the  mist  cleared  from  his  eyes,  he  thought 
he  had  killed  her. 

"  You  frightened  me,"  she  said.  "  You  press  so 
hard —  No,  no.  I  don't  mean  frightened.  But  I 
did  n't  understand  —  " 

His  arms  were  round  her  neck.  He  drew  her  to 
him,  and  held  her,  crushing  her  until  she  bit  her 
lips. 

Abruptly,  he  released  her,  almost  pushing  her 
away. 

"  I  want  you  to  go  now,"  he  said. 

"  No !  "  she  cried,  and  clung  to  him. 

He  unloosed  her  arms.     "  Yes.     You  must  go." 


312  THE    PIT 

"  But  I  may  come  back?  " 

"  Why  make  it  harder?  "  he  said.  "  I  want  you 
to  go." 

"  Away  from  you  altogether?  Forever  out  of 
your  life?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

She  was  going  to  speak  again,  but  saw  his  face 
was  white  and  strained.  She  realized  that  he  was 
fighting  with  himself. 

"  Please  go,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  she  said.  "  It  does  n't 
seem  necessary,  or  right.  Just  cruel." 

"  Please  go,"  he  repeated. 

"  Why  have  you  changed  ?  "  she  cried.  "  You 
were  so  different  at  first,  at  Daventry." 

"I  didn't  realize  then,"  he  said.  "I  didn't 
know." 

"  You  have  seen  something,"  she  said.  "  You 
have  seen  the  future  —  as  you  foresaw  the  explosion 
at  the  pit.  You  have  seen  the  end  of  all  our 
dreams." 

Her  eyes  were  haunted  with  a  vision  of  darkness. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  I  have  seen  something." 

"  Too  terrible  to  be  faced  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Too  terrible  to  be  remembered,"  he  said. 

She  came  to  him.     "  Kiss  me,"  she  said. 

He  kissed  her. 

She  turned  and  went  toward  the  door,  slowly. 
Her  head  was  bent.  She  fumbled  at  the  knob. 


THE    PIT 


313 


He  walked  across  the  room  and  opened  the  door. 
She  did  not  look  at  him,  or  at  Harrington,  waiting 
in  the  surgery. 

"  I  will  send  you  home  in  the  car,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  thank  him;  did  not  speak  while  they 
waited  for  Marple;  did  not  say  good-night  as  she 
was  driven  away. 


CHAPTER   X 

WARD  went  back  into  the  house,  and  into 
his  study.  He  did  not  notice  at  first  that 
his  grandfather  still  occupied  one  of  the 
easy  chairs. 

"  You  seem  disturbed,"  the  old  man  said.  "  Noth- 
ing unpleasant,  I  hope?  But  your  face  has  the 
peculiar  pallor  that  one  would  associate  with  a  de- 
tected murderer." 

"  I  am  a  murderer,"  Ward  answered  quietly.  "  I 
have  murdered  my  children  —  for  their  own  sakes." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  the  old  man  asked. 
"  What 's  the  matter?  Dear  God,  is  something 
always  happening  in  this  neighbourhood?  " 

"It's  bedtime,"  Ward  said.  "Where  is  Phil- 
potts  ?  "  He  rang  the  bell. 

"  It  is  scarcely  decent  that  one  should  be  sent 
to  bed  by  one's  grandson,"  Lord  Daventry  com- 
plained. "  It  is  peculiarly  indecent  that  one  should 
be  sent  to  bed  without  receiving  the  explanation 
of  a  very  strange  remark.  Children?  I  don't 
understand." 

"  Don't  worry,"  Ward  said.  "  They  won't  bother 
you.  You  '11  never  see  them." 


THE    PIT  315 

Philpotts  announced  himself  with  a  tap  that 
seemed  to  follow  him. 

Lord  Daventry  glanced  at  his  grandson,  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  rose. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said.  "  I  would  say  God  bless 
you  —  but  it  sounds  sentimental."  He  looked  very 
old  as  he  went  out. 

Ward  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  worked  for  an 
hour,  answering  letters,  making  notes  in  his  case- 
book, and  checking  accounts.  It  was  midnight  when 
he  went  to  bed. 

He  was  tired,  but  could  not  sleep.  He  tried  not 
to  consider  his  recent  action.  It  was  past,  finished. 
Yet  he  could  not  dismiss  the  subject.  Had  he 
acted  sanely,  or  stupidly? 

He  reviewed  his  own  life.  It  seemed  that  he  had 
not  done  badly.  At  least,  he  had  not  drifted.  The 
very  neighbourhood  in  which  he  lived  was  a  witness 
to  will-power,  to  stability  of  purpose. 

Had  he  misunderstood  his  own  character;  mag- 
nified the  normal  into  the  abnormal?  Was  he  in 
reality  different  from  other  men? 

Looking  through  himself,  he  watched  the  Beast 
within ;  the  thing  he  had  fought  with ;  the  thing 
that  he  was. 

He  heard  a  dog  barking,  somewhere  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Newchurch.  Then  came  faint  sounds  from 
the  Chayle  colliery. 

His  mind  began  to  drift.     He  saw  a  great  wheel, 


316  THE    PIT 

like  the  wheel  at  the  colliery.  He  watched  it  grow 
until  it  dominated  the  sky  —  a  black  rainbow  in  a 
night  of  stars.  It  began  to  revolve  —  the  lower 
half  lost  in  the  earth-shadows.  Bound  on  the  wheel 
were  forms  of  men  and  women.  He  saw  them  car- 
ried to  the  stars,  and  then  down  to  the  dust. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  saw  endless  revolutions; 
watched  innumerable  lives. 

The  barking  of  the  dog  recalled  him  to  wakeful- 
ness.  The  wheel  of  destiny  disappeared. 

He  thought  of  his  own  strange  experiences,  cul- 
minating in  the  colliery  warning.  However  others 
might  try  to  explain  them,  he  knew  that  he  himself 
could  not  account  for  them  on  what  would  be  con- 
sidered normal  grounds.  The  conviction  of  a  knowl- 
edge beyond  temporal  knowledge,  of  worlds  within 
worlds,  and  worlds  beyond  worlds,  established  itself 
impregnably.  Yet  these  incidents,  which  had  af- 
fected him  so  strongly,  were  utterly  dwarfed  by  the 
miracles  of  common  life:  only  a  God  could  have 
devised  an  earthworm  or  a  stone.  Yes,  God  existed 
—  throned  in  a  remote  star,  or  conceived  as  the 
everlasting  root  and  substance  of  the  universe.  And 
whether  He  blamed  or  pitied ;  punished  in  His  hells, 
or  rewarded  in  His  heavens,  or  rested  divinely  in- 
different, leaving  to  lesser  wills  the  intimate  order- 
ing of  events  —  man  must  follow  the  ideal  of  duty 
and  fitness. 

Whatever  else  these  premonitions  and  previsions 


THE    PIT  317 

might  mean,  they  proved  at  least,  to  him,  that  the 
control  of  life  was  not  based  on  a  vague,  imper- 
sonal development.  Humanity  had  importance,  and 
was  regulated  by  a  power  which,  however  supra- 
human,  could  be  known  in  degree,  and  comprehended 
in  degree,  by  men.  The  whole  scheme  of  existence 
was  not  fortuitous.  Every  detail  had  value.  Con- 
duct was  not  an  affair  of  individual  preference.  It 
was  concerned  with  the  final  end. 

The  face  of  the  woman  he  desired  came  to  him, 
objectively.  He  looked  into  the  eyes. 

She  was  decadent,  as  he  was  decadent.  Their 
blood  was  tainted. 

He  seemed  to  look  back  through  an  endless  cycle 
of  centuries;  yet  always  he  was  looking  into  the 
eyes  of  this  woman,  eyes  which  became  magnified 
grotesquely,  until  they  streamed  like  meteors  through 
a  firmament  of  time.  He  struggled  to  escape  from 
them,  and,  as  he  struggled,  saw  himself  through  all 
the  ages,  fighting,  but  not  winning.  God!  at  what- 
ever cost,  he  must  break  that  endless  chain  of  years, 
and  hide  those  eyes  in  the  darkness. 

Quivering,  he  came  back  to  half  consciousness. 
He  tried  to  remember  something  that  he  had  for- 
gotten. It  eluded  him.  He  strained  to  grasp  it. 

Darkness.  He  saw  himself,  as  he  had  seen  him- 
self before.  He  was  asleep.  He  dreamed  that  she 
was  lying  by  his  side  —  this  woman  whom  he  had 
known  from  the  beginning  of  time.  She  had  leaned 


318  THE    PIT 

very  close  to  him;  had  whispered  to  him  of  a  new 
life  stirring  within  her.  And  he  had  drawn  her 
close,  and  kissed  her,  and  so  at  last  she  had  fallen 
asleep.  But  he  had  remained  awake,  staring  at  the 
ceiling,  where  shadows  flickered.  And  then  he  too 
had  fallen  asleep,  and  dreamed.  And  in  his  dream 
he  had  walked  to  and  fro,  watching  the  Beast  within 
him;  the  Beast  that  snarled  and  grinned.  He  had 
tried  to  throttle  it,  but  it  had  leaped  away  from 
him,  mocking  him.  He  thought  of  the  new  life  that 
was  coming;  saw  a  little  form,  relaxed,  with  tiny 
closed  fingers.  This  is  my  son,  he  thought,  his  heart 
stirring.  He  looked  intently,  and  saw  that  the 
Beast,  whose  name  was  Legion,  had  already  occupied 
that  frail  tenement,  and  grinned  at  him,  baring  its 
teeth.  His  face  became  rigid.  There  must  be  no 
new  life,  no  little  form  with  the  taint  of  devils.  He 
stretched  out  his  hands,  and  caught  the  Beast,  chok- 
ing it.  It  tore  him,  but  he  tightened  his  grip.  And 
he  dreamed  that  he  woke  from  his  dream;  and  by 
his  side  was  a  dead  woman,  with  the  marks  of 
strangling  fingers  on  her  throat. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  could  throw  off  the 
weight  of  that  nightmare.  Was  it  warning,  or 
prophecy,  or  merely  the  invention  of  a  brooding 
mind?  And  yet,  once  before  it  had  come  to  him, 
in  that  night  of  strange  dreams  at  Daventry.  And 
he  had  learnt  beyond  all  doubting  since  then,  that 
these  previsions  always  found  exact  fulfilment. 


THE    PIT  319 

And  yet  —  how  could  the  future  be  fixed?  If 
he  himself  had  power  to  choose  now,  how  could 
he  lose  the  power  to  choose  again,  if  need  were? 
How  could  fate  be  inexorable,  unchangeable?  His 
grandfather  was  right.  Probabilities  only  could 
be  foreseen,  not  inevitabilities.  Nothing  was  in- 
evitable. 

Half  asleep,  he  shook  his  head.  Rather,  every- 
thing was  inevitable.  When  the  first  step  had  been 
taken,  the  last  was  assured. 

With  his  eyes  shut,  he  gazed  steadily  into  the 
darkness  of  the  night.  And  slowly,  a  message  sym- 
bolled  itself,  as  with  vast  letters  on  a  pyramid. 

Right  or  wrong,  man  must  live  up  to  the  best  — 
not  the  Beast  —  that  was  in  him.  He  must  justify 
his  vision  of  life,  so  far  as  he  could  see  it,  and  make 
—  not  accept  —  destiny. 

He  knew  what  was  involved  in  living  alone:  the 
incompleteness,  the  semi-sterilization  of  effort;  the 
unfilled  days,  the  vacant  nights. 

Well,  he  would  have  his  work.  He  could  help 
things  forward  a  little.  The  rest  was  his  own 
affair. 

And  she  —  ? 

She  must  grapple  with  her  own  problem.  Man 
had  taken  much  from  woman,  for  his  lust  and  his 
desire  and  his  love.  But  he  had  given  more,  pre- 
tending when  illusion  was  gone;  yielding  to  her 
weakness,  as  to  a  child's ;  deceiving  her,  for  her 


320  THE    PIT 

vanity's  sake;  killing  his  soul,  that  her  body  might 
live. 

Half  consciously,  he  stretched  out  his  arms. 

He  was  utterly  tired.  A  weight  was  on  his  eyes. 
As  he  drifted  into  sleep,  he  seemed  to  hear  thinly, 
from  a  distance,  the  blare  of  a  steam  siren,  calling 
labourers  to  their  toil  in  the  early  morning. 
Dreamily,  he  felt  his  kinship  with  those  who  do 
things,  walking  steadfastly  in  a  known  path,  and 
fulfilling  a  purpose,  whether  in  the  making  of  pots 
or  the  hewing  of  coal.  These  were  but  symbols  of 
the  supreme  necessity  —  achievement. 

Through  deeds,  and  the  striving  for  knowledge, 
comes  ripeness.  And  ripeness  is  all. 


r 


V 


A    000133977    9 


